I’ve done it again. I’ve let myself slip into such an obsessional production-line of “things I have to do” that I have lost the joy and pride for what I have even made, whilst living in these endless shifts.
Even the music I listen to has been used as a motivational tool for ‘getting stuff done’, and at this moment I can’t even find any music that can satisfy this empty feeling. Also, the books I read are becoming the ‘spectres’ of my obsessive personality, just like when I started collecting retro computer games, aged 19, in a desperate attempt to attempt to un-earth some sense of enjoyment from my childhood at a time when I was rapidly slipping into an anorexic state – only for it to become part of my obsessive patterns.
Why does a glimmer of hope always end up turning into a concrete slab weighing down on me further?