(Phaysis)

I suspect I’m in a season of silence. Not much to be said that’s suitable for a public journal.

Work is stressful. Sometimes I miss the simplicity of working with mechanical devices instead of mechanistic people. I had a moment of clarity last week; I’m not trapped. I can leave. I’m only existentially bound to my projects and coworkers. As a former manager of mine said just before he left to work for the competitor, “You have to look out for what’s best for Shawn, Incorporated.” But would I leave?

Outside of work, I need to find something to help me relax. Something that I can win. But even then, most of what I do too closely resembles actual work. There’s no relaxation. I mean, I know I have music projects, website projects, writing projects. I have things I could do, if only I wanted to. All of these projects are unified by the same internal drive. Without the desire to generate my own movements and craft my internal desires into external fruits, none of these projects will get done.

That same internal drive also motivates me to reach out and connect with people. I know some of you would love for me to call, to hang out, to spend time with you. It’s nothing against your character that I don’t take the risk. Without that drive, that ache, that itch, that fire, I’d rather sit inert and stare at the screen, listen to the conversation, feel without touching. It bothers me that, at age 39, I’m practicing to be the old man slumped in his chair, staring at the wall of the retirement center. I just want to be passive, for somebody else to push my chair to the garden.

Talking requires The Spark. It requires effort. Speaking in a dialogue takes more energy than random confessions, than verbalizing personal memories, than talking about myself. This blog is easy. Facebook comments are easy. Chat room ramblings are easy. Talking with people about real stuff is hard.

So expect not so much of it from me for a while. I’ll come back around soon enough.

I’m sitting here at the very tail end of the weekend, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve completely wasted my time. Trying to find the words to say, to put together, to make myself feel like I’ve done something, like I’ve not let 56 hours of my life slip by with nothing to show for it. But it’s hard. There was once a time I could flood the page with meaning and passion. Once, I could fixate on a drawing and produce a thing of beauty. Now, I just want escape. Want to create without having to explain. Want to put out a chunk of creative output without providing a back story. Want to not be distracted. But in my middle age, all I can think of is my job and how, even though it’s great, I just want to turn off and escape it when I’m not at work. And when I’m not at work, I don’t want to work on anything; I just want to wander, to leave, to be unmotivated. And that is the horror of it all. That my motivation has vanished, and that I spent the last 56 hours of my life with nothing to show for it.