Writing is the only thing worth doing, or at least, it’s the one thing that, after I’ve done it, I feel as if I’ve spent my time well.
Compared to an hour of poking around on the internet, sixty minutes of trying to put my ideas down on (virtual) paper makes me feel as if I’ve actually done something, even if it’s something that no one else will ever read.
I still harbor the illusion, though, that my post-retirement income will be earned as a writer; I imagine that people will pay me for my words, given that they will be emanating from such an old man.
Or maybe I’ll just be dead and won’t have to worry about it.
It’s deeply confounding how much the future oppresses us. It doesn’t even exist, and yet it’s constantly making the life that I lead today, in this moment, much more difficult. It’s weird to worry so much about something that’s imaginary; I don’t, for example, find myself being overly concerned with unicorns, or leprechauns, or compassionate conservatives. And yet the future, a similarly non-existent entity, bedevils me constantly.
Many people are troubled by the past; not me. I’m enough of a determinist to cut myself a reasonable amount of slack for the choices I’ve made, given my intuition that I couldn’t actually have chosen any differently. The future, however, seems to offer more possibilities, hence more possibilities for failure. I realize that the choices I make or don’t make today, (even if they’re not really choices in the most robust sense), will determine what my life is like in the years to come. Consequently, I feel like my potential for fucking up is quite high. In fact, almost anything I do will result in an outcome far less than ideal.
So, ultimately, as far as the future is concerned, it doesn’t really matter what I do right now; may as well get stoned and buy a lottery ticket.
Compared to an hour of poking around on the internet, sixty minutes of trying to put my ideas down on (virtual) paper makes me feel as if I’ve actually done something, even if it’s something that no one else will ever read.
I still harbor the illusion, though, that my post-retirement income will be earned as a writer; I imagine that people will pay me for my words, given that they will be emanating from such an old man.
Or maybe I’ll just be dead and won’t have to worry about it.
It’s deeply confounding how much the future oppresses us. It doesn’t even exist, and yet it’s constantly making the life that I lead today, in this moment, much more difficult. It’s weird to worry so much about something that’s imaginary; I don’t, for example, find myself being overly concerned with unicorns, or leprechauns, or compassionate conservatives. And yet the future, a similarly non-existent entity, bedevils me constantly.
Many people are troubled by the past; not me. I’m enough of a determinist to cut myself a reasonable amount of slack for the choices I’ve made, given my intuition that I couldn’t actually have chosen any differently. The future, however, seems to offer more possibilities, hence more possibilities for failure. I realize that the choices I make or don’t make today, (even if they’re not really choices in the most robust sense), will determine what my life is like in the years to come. Consequently, I feel like my potential for fucking up is quite high. In fact, almost anything I do will result in an outcome far less than ideal.
So, ultimately, as far as the future is concerned, it doesn’t really matter what I do right now; may as well get stoned and buy a lottery ticket.
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