Where does motivation go to die? I had it. I did. And I called on it daily — I used to get up at 4 a.m. every day and write. I worked at the bakery and at home, took yoga and pilates classes 2x/week and ran every other day, went to book club, spent time with friends, met George somewhere fun for date night, read volumes in my spare time, volunteered weekly and monthly, and then planned brunches and parties for more excuses to see people. Now that I need it, the spark of Must that spurred me, it's vanished.
Lately I've attempted to fill my schedule with meaningless things in an effort to have a schedule. Like real people. Mornings, I read while sipping my coffee, slurping up some words with breakfast, hoping both are meaningful. I'm at my computer by 9 o'clock, checking email, updating project lists, revising ads to get more clients, sometimes just staring forlornly at my lack of work, organizing emptiness. Time passes.
By lunch I like to go outside at least once, usually for no reason. There may be a package delivery and there's always the mail, but sometimes I need to walk down for milk or stamps, providing a legitimate excuse to venture out. Otherwise I fear I may not leave the house that day. When I eat, I'll watch TV sometimes, read other times, depending on whether my meal allows page turning. If I'm endangering the book, it's TV.
But now we've reached the part of the day that gets muddled and lost: afternoons. The black hole of my day. Without a project to work on, I have zero reason to go back upstairs. My Spanish program uses 30-60 minutes before I itch to move. I can bake something that later I'll have to eat or give away. If it's nice, I'll walk/run/bike with the dogs for an hour or so. If it's not nice, I'll walk/run in the basement. Maybe I'll read more. Maybe I'll clean. Maybe I'll finish one of the hundred projects gasping for air. More likely I won't. I'll find something online to distract me, Facebook perhaps or filling shopping carts with items I'll never buy (or worse yet, do). Hours of wanton, circular web trafficking laying waste to an afternoon.
I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel annoyed. I am not this person who does nothing. What is wrong with me?
Springtime tiptoes toward me, and a large cluster of the hurries is forming. Something must be done, planned, decided, executed. Winter's restlessness ended. The problem is, who's going to do it? And what? I'm anxious for it — dying, really — but this vacuum of the blahs is quite paralyzing.