February 3rd, 2004
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The platform at Keio-Shinjuku seemed awfully quiet this morning. I arrived two minutes later than usual, though still with plenty of time. The train was sitting at the platform and most of the passengers were already seated, leaving the track area vacant and silent. Having the stillness to myself for a moment, I pulled back from the blood-peppered coughings of my worrying mind and wondered how old I would be before I could escape the grinding gears of a thousand analyses on my inefficiencies in life.
I set goals for myself to accomplish things clerical and artistic in a certain timeframe, and ultimately seem to meet seventy percent of them on schedule, with another fifteen one month late. This frustrates me as I know it’s hindering my ability to sleep, breathe, and work in peace. Get an apartment, cook healthy meals, run three days out of seven, finally reconcile my finances- leave the emotional attachment to a life where I don’t work sixty hours a week. It’s a decaying cycle that leaves me unbalanced with rack-upon-rack of quasi-failure that robs me of my memory, leaving a constant double-guessing of how things were better six months or three years ago and what I was doing right then. The occasional spurts of competency come like bush floods, dousing my thirst in an instant but quickly drying, taking any lasting benefit deep into the soil. It’s amazing I haven’t broken down yet. Fortunately, the excitement and satisfaction I’m deriving from my work has been risen dramatically over January.
