Ever since writing the blog’s introduction, a little over a month ago, I’ve been burning to get back to it and create a decent article. ‘As soon as I finish my thesis’, I thought, ‘ I shall start writing regularly’. And here I am, the thesis finally over, everything set…why then am I not doing as I have planned? Simply put, I lack the enthusiasm that I had and see the challenges more vividly.
This is not an isolated case: many times, while in the middle of some hard stretch, I will start fantasising about the many entertaining things I shall do once I am free, only to find out that when that time comes said activities quickly lose their appeal. I find myself struggling, trying to force myself into enjoying them and growing progressively angrier as I fail.
One of the many necessary flaws of the human mind is that it tends to recall cheerful memories before sad ones, thus significantly altering our perception of reality. The process can be best seen in many newly separated couples who, thought they had very good reasons for breaking up, start feeling that they made a mistake and should try to “work it out” by starting anew. Their minds filter out the bad, attributing it to chance or solvable problems, and they delude themselves into continuing a relationship that is bound to fail once more.
The same process applies to me in the substantially more trivial relationship that one has with petty entertainment. I seem to want it constantly, even though it seldom gives me any lingering satisfaction, often quite the contrary, all because of a few good moments. I need to fight this compulsion and start seeing it for what it is: a casual way of relaxing and enjoying oneself. I shouldn’t seek any lasting enjoyment from it and rather fill that void with the pursuit of creation, although it is by no means immune to much the same illusions. As I try and devise an explanation, Orwell’s voice dwarves my thoughts, so I shall let him speak: “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention”. Although I would never call myself a writer and cannot even comprehend what writing a book must feel like, I do begin to understand his words. It is a bout, but one I wish to fight.
I should, if not produce something of any worth to strangers, at least keep practising this exercise, in the hope that I can one day become more than mediocre at it.
P.S. It has now been almost four months since I’ve written the lines above and as I read them I wonder why I haven’t posted them. Perhaps, out of fear of revealing the flawed process by which my mind links thoughts that don’t necessarily fit together, but show me a mind absent flaws. I think I shall embrace mine.