Will

I’ve been losing the will to do anything. It’s hard figuring out why.

Sometimes when I listen to the tiredness I can sit in a chair for eight hours, and I will. I guess I need to rest for several more like that, but I’m not sure if I can afford that.

Maybe the fatal flaw of Schopenhauer is acquiescing to the thought the Will is untenable. After all, all the masters of the world have rewritten their mind hundreds of times, if they even have a mind left.

My current will to do nothing other than rot probably comes from a lot of unconscious thoughts I’ve collected in my satchel and travels.

What would deafen a Will beyond repair… perhaps resignation from changes. I really am sympathetic to Schopenhauer, I am, because who wouldn’t struggle with the thought you could completely destroy and recreate until you find a will most agreeable? Instead I struggle to let go all of the things that keep me inert, because the Truth in them seems unmistakable… Ecclesiastes being my favourite book doesn’t help.

I can’t let go of the thought that there is no action to get me out of this. If you constrain Action’s definition to be “within the physical”. Whoever finds elation will soon find deflation, and however withered my innards show I’ll fly tattered until sunken.

I have some projects on standby, flashcards too, and can’t find the will to continue them. Probably because the last thing I want to do is add another hour slot to keep one on the computer. But it’s not as though Out There gets you unchained, as reiterated.

I guess all I want, if I could, is hear the melody. When I walk through my apartment’s walkways I want each step to start a note, persisted, brings the trombone introduction. Every wall will glitter in stanzas, speckled by three-fourths time and a heart to beat metronome.

With each sway my ordinary jammies unravel to the robe of the Confucian scholar, the dervish, and if I extend my arm out all of the lyrics follow, unspoken, inner-heard. Looking up the popcorn ceilings expand the same as the planetarium, and each star hops to our budding movement.

Each saint sat within them, smitten.