12:01 PM: It is almost comical how persistent yet unresolved my desire to finish reading my 2016 journal has become. It’s such a small thing. It would take twenty minutes at most, probably less. It is comical, but it is only as comical as it is sad.
It’s as if I’ve come to a point in which the busy work of putting out fires has largely disappeared and in an effort to avoid the unfamiliar and uncomfortable work that actually propels one forward, I nurture a few hot coals ablaze so that I can feel productive when I put them out. I let my mail build up for months and feel accomplished when I take care of it and my plan for the future is still uncontemplated and uncertain.
It is also comical how long I have been pissing and moaning about a lack of purpose that I rarely bother to as much as ponder. So, in an effort to lighten the load of listless languish, I will assign this box of squalor in which I reside as my primary purpose.
While in PT school, all efforts were pointedly focused on completing the program. It was a more miserable, but less lost time. Focusing on the squalor coffin will hopefully provide the same reprieve, unfamiliar though the work may be and uncertain of where to begin. It is helpful to keep in mind that this abode of dilapidation is currently a prison until the work is done. The end game freedom I want above all else is not possible in my current state of affairs. The work must be done, even if the work consists of making the decision to cut my losses and walk away having not once picked up a hammer.
[Three years later the house has declined further into dilapidation.]
