Bookmark #633

It is way past afternoon on a Friday, and I sit here with a bowl of cereal, yawning absurdly and intermittently. With two screens facing me and asking me, in their own regard, to get some work done, I feel terribly stretched and exhausted in advance. The day began a few hours ago, and I feel the sort of tired one tends to feel when the week is close to its inevitable end. Most weeks end with me being tired mentally, but there are rare weeks when I am tired physically. My threshold for exhaustion is large, owing to habits inculcated in me from the get-go or, perhaps, some genetic lottery. I reckon, large as it may be, I do reach it now and then. Today is one of those days when a cup of coffee has no benefit, and this cereal seems as useless as an umbrella on a pleasant spring day. And so, my goal for today is to do as much as I can, which I’ve come to realise is always a deviation from the standard, again, owing to the habits I picked up over the years, and then sleep early and sleep well. The jury is still out on whether that will actually happen, but I would be glad if I could manage to end the day on time.

This is by no means unfortunate or terrible. It is but a description of things. It does not have to stand for anything but that—a description. Most people immediately assign emotion to things. This is the Achilles heel of society and those who live in it. Most things are as they are, and what we feel about them adds nothing to the thing itself, its conversation, or its description. Most, not all, of course. That is always a nuance we must remember to consider. Some things warrant you to feel about them. They compel you to comment. If and only if that is the case, should we ever talk about them in the frame of our feelings. The rest, we should let slip like we let time slip, which is to say, we should let them slip without noticing or caring about them until it is much too late, if at all.

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