Complacence

1 minute read

[2021-10-12 Tue 18:01] - 7834

Lately, I’ve been only talking about how good writing feels and haven’t been living in accordance to the essence of a writer id est - to write…

This, as expected, extensively seeps into all other pursuits. I’ve fallen for the elusive trap of the pseudo-reward associated with imagining action. Though, when used appropriately, these pseudo-rewards do propel tangible action , as of recently, I’ve learned to crutch along, unaware and ignorant.

The recent past became more about feeling that I’m doing a lot instead of doing a lot. I’ve been somewhat aware all along and only today, as with the end of every rut-cycle, I find myself under a pile of ignorances(is a non-numerical noun).

However, at the end of every such rut-cycle, I get up again, re-waging war against inaction (I’m a fairly dramatic person : I really do go out - mentally - hacking away with machetes), doing better each time, stumbling upon new problems, all again to fall down, and rise, and fall down, and rise, again, and again, and again - life is undeniably interesting…

I’m not sure, yet, how to textualize (not a word) my grunts.

Each time I try to correct one core draw-back that potentially contributed to the downfall of the kingdom of productivity and this time I’m inspired to be obsessed with stratagem.

Have updated my reading queue to analyze, obsessively, the great strategists of the past and imbibe the act of planning as second nature.

I’m not sure ,yet, how one looks beyond this periodicity. I, inevitably , grow complacent at the end of each such cycle and have to hack away at some old habits to get back in the game. This time, the act of planning, it is. If I am a dog chasing cars, I must plan for when the car stops.

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