O motivation, where hast thou gone?
Why hast thou left me, and when shall I find thee again?
Where, o where shall I look to find thee?
Canst thou be in my books?
In my stacks and stacks of unread books?
In my reams of notes?
In my piles and piles of unstarted or unfinished projects?
Shall I search my closets again?
My feng shui?
I’m so ridiculously unmotivated right now. I have an entire notecard full of little tasks to complete, any one of which will start the ball of motivation rolling, I’m sure of it. All I have to do is get one teensy thing done, and that will be enough to spark a sense of self-accomplishment that will start the conflagration of self-motivation whose pale ashes linger in my soul.
All I want to do for the forseeable future is sit outside in the sun, sipping hot coffee and sweating lightly while losing myself in fiction. Alas, that demon called work calls me to task every morning, and I’m left at the end of the day with nothing to show but a few completed tasks in my Outlook and that drab feeling that can only come from pushing through insistent drowsiness. Perhaps too many carbohydrates at lunch.
I’m going to have to put the fiction down for a bit, I think.
“You there! With the book! Put the novel down and let the man go! I’m not warning you again!”
Oh, how I long for that cascade of accomplishment, tasks falling finished to the ground behind me as so many thick – yet tender – bamboo shoots are severed by a raz0r-blade. Falling, some gently, some violently behind me, even as I dance forth through the grove – my subconscious choosing the next target, my conscious focused on the path ahead that isn’t clear to anyone but me.
But I can’t find the desire to clasp the hilt of my katana, even though it sits at my hip, the hilt calling my name, blade begging to sing forth from the sheath.
Ach. Cras. Pro Cras. Forsit Cras. Perhaps tomorrow.