so the question remains - why do we do anything? Is life just one damn thing after the other, in a vain attempt to find something to do before inevitable death swallows us? Because that is the distinct impression I keep getting.

My boss is pretty intense. She gets up at 3:15 in the morning to study for her Nutrition Master's degree before coming to work and working way harder than I ever do. She described to me her day, and I got exhausted just thinking about it. Like, she REALLY wants this, but will it make her life better? I sometimes think that the reason I don't have as interesting and impressive a life is that I'm not particularly interested in working that hard. I'm lazy to my own detriment.

Most religions tell us to slow down, stop worrying, stop fretting and making ourselves miserable. Just enjoy life and take it easy. Work at whatever is in front of you. But really, I don't care anymore. I've never wanted to DO anything. I've always been interested in STOPPING doing.

So, what? Is this so-called blog going to be just an extended suicide note? That seems dumb. But really, why do I do ANYTHING? I don't know, anymore. I love my wife, insanely, but I think I may have thought that she was going to save my life by giving me direction - that her intensity would give my life direction, coupled with the fact that I totally love her, all smashed into a singularity of awesomeness that would from then on be my life.

I said to Katie, "You need to think of reasons to do things." I need to think of reasons to do things. My four a day blog languishes, because I cannot, for the life of me, think of a reason to write it. Who reads it? Who cares? My wife? Anybody else? I write the most insane confessional stuff here, and there is literally nobody who reads it. It's impressive, if you think about it. I'm not even upset about it, it just sort of knocks the wind out of you. Like, why say anything if no one is listening. And if they are listening, why say anything anyway. What are they gonna do about it? "You're alone in the universe? Yeah, join the club, buddy."

I write this because it passes the time at work. Which may be why I've ever done anything, exactly like what I said. I don't just want to pass the time. I want meaning, and I don't know where it lives.

Getting your mojo back

"The way I see it, part of the problem is you just aren't having fun."

She paused and thought about this for a moment. I was right.

I was sorta right about me, too. *I* really wasn't having much fun anymore, either. Why was that?

The pleasure I took in writing, gone. The pleasure I took in making music, gone. The pleasure I took in performing, gone. I don't want to sound like I'm depressed or anything, but I remember distinctly having friends, having a purpose. I even remember the day I stopped. I was at a party, I'd finally admitted to myself that I didn't love my wife, and the group of friends that my soon to be ex and I'd been hanging with for the past 3 years were screening a video of the play we'd done that previous summer. We'd gotten rave reviews in the local press, sold out houses, and a real sense that we'd accomplished something. It was going to be a great night.

We watched the play. Everyone laughed at the funny parts, enjoyed the hell out of their own performances, and dug the hell out of each other. It was a mutual admiration society meeting, and everybody was a member in good standing.

Except me.

I watched in horror as the play that I thought had been so good while we were doing it sat there on the screen and stunk like a dead fish. Was *this* what we looked like? Is *that* how we sounded? All the things that we worked so hard on - was *this* the result? People had told us we were great! Were they lying?

I didn't get it. But I couldn't take it anymore. I got up and left the room, manned the bar for the rest of the evening. I was shaken. I could hear people laughing in the next room, enjoying themselves, and I was outside.

I've since learned that my prodigious kratom intake may have had something to do with my subsequent anxiety, anhedonia, and depression. I think I'm still coming back from that.

When I get an idea, a thought for a creative project, a desire to comment on someone's blog post, for God's sake, I'll occasionally start, and then, midway through the first sentence, I'll think, "Eh, what's the point." and move on.

So, obviously there's still a bit of an issue here.

I don't even know what the good creative projects are anymore.

I do know, however, that somehow I have to come out the other side of this. I'm just not sure how to do that. Have I damaged myself too deeply? I don't know yet. I suppose we'll see.

sloth

The past few days have been terrible, and it's surprising how quickly my thoughts turn morbid when I am under the slightest bit of pressure.

My wife hates her job, and I don't know how to help her. Her depression is like all the lights in the house have been dimmed by a quarter: not enough to make it impossible to see, and a lot of the time you don't even notice, but eventually you get a headache and a permanent squint.

I'm tired, even though I'm getting plenty of sleep. I do yoga everyday, and it seems to be helping (body-wise), but damn if I'm not exhausted right now. Nothing's free.

I have stuff I could be doing, but I just want to sleep. I hate it all. It's surprising - I am remarkably self-destructive when it comes to action. People ask what your sin is, and mine is certainly sloth.