I'm not sure why I'm doing this but I'm sharing here a recent excerpt from my personal journal. I've been restless and anxious lately, unable to sit still, and I'm not sure why. Everything seems to require more effort of late, like I'm moving through a thick, numbing fog. But I cannot sit down, I cannot seem to rest.
As I sit and try to decide how to spend the rest of my evening, the conflict begins. Do I read? If so, what? The fantasy novel I've been reading for pure pleasure and escape, or do I take the more serious option and read more Chekhov or contemporary short fiction? Or there are any of the non-fiction options open to me: books on writing (which I am guilty of reading in lieu of actually writing) or freelancing, the popular science book that's been staring at me for months, or the excellent general history of World War I I just picked up on the cheap.
I would love to escape with my guilty pleasure and choose the fantasy, but out of a sense of guilt I feel compelled not to. And this is where the resentment creeps in, where all the SHOULDS come to gather, murmuring at my doorstep. It is here that I do one of two things: a) I cave to the SHOULDS and try to follow their instructions by doing what I should do. What I should do is always easy to spot because it is the task or tasks I feel I must do in order to achieve some ethereal notion of success. In writing for instance, I feel I should read more Chekhov if I have any hope of learning to be a better writer. Hence the guilt, for everyone knows there are no good writers who haven't taken the time to study Chekhov. Or b) I do none of the things I might enjoy doing, or feel I must do and lose myself to hours of the internet or gaming, or worse, television. All the while feeling lousy and unable to enjoy even these things.
Where is the relaxed, simple contentment at having an evening free? When did it become a competition?
How easy it is to let the SHOULDS control us. Sometimes I wonder if the speed at which our world moves today, the constant bombardment of information, the unspoken requirement of productivity has not somehow infected me, spinning my mind into a frenzy and compelling me to keep up or be left behind.
Who are we keeping up with?
