The toilet was an inevitable dinner topic growing up. Not surprisingly, I have the useless ability (habit, rather) to naturally insert bathroom and biological matters in practically any conversation. My dad is to thank for all that.
Within one of our toilet discussions was the floater. It was the light density kind, a sign of good nutrition, according to my respectable source. When you flush it all down, it’s that one little island that will most likely turn up again.
Why am I talking about poo? Well, the floater suddenly came up (no pun intended) when I think about my life right now. I am a floater. Sadly, my word for the year was engage, but I find myself vegging out after work, stuffing myself with stories and food, trying to make myself laugh. I’m not depressed. There’s a joy about me that’s usually there, but lately it’s fading a bit. A lot of it has to do with the way I’m choosing to live. Or not live, because that’s probably the more accurate phrase.
Rather than pursuing important things and interests with fire and conviction, I excuse myself with chores (many remain undone. Apparently I have enough socks to last a month. Or am I recycling them? I’ll never tell.), general tiredness from a sedentary but still draining kind of work, and recovery from my extroverted escapades. I haven’t gotten back to my correspondences, no exercise (although I did get a deal for a Krav Maga class), and hardly initiated contact with people in lighting and disaster relief.
At work, while I do enjoy what I do most of the time (not because it’s intrinsically enjoyable, but more of a state of mind), I’ve been there practically three months but still am floating between projects. On the up side, it allows me to be part of different teams, and it gives a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes of several retail brands. On the down side, I don’t quite ‘master’ the personalities, details, etc. of different brands, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll be getting laid off in the near future.
So here I am, floating along. But floating not in the freedom of the open ocean (God forbid we find a nasty piece of crap while doing the backstroke), but in little ceramic bowl. At work, in life, and with God lately, I feel a sense of mindlessness and entrapment. And it’s all my doing. I’ve been meaning to engage, to write more, take more pictures, learn a language, get fit, and do useful things. But the intention to do them is still not doing them. Why is it so easy to just float, to just… fall asleep and go along, however darkened with a hint of unhappiness and guilt knowing that time is being wasted. That I’m not living the way I can, and should. Where is the fight in me? Choked up, by the cares of daily living, and by the pleasures of life that I gorge upon like a monster.
The best would be to get flushed down, get buried in a compost pile. That way, something else has a chance of getting something good out of my life. But I’m that floater that keeps coming back up, unable to die to itself, to old habits, and to a way of living that due to being accustomed to, I often feel entitled to. A way of living where things that aren’t bad, actually become bad, because I can’t control myself. I don’t want to be weighed down by my guilt, but I don’t want to downplay how bad it is that I have a hard time sacrificing, waiting, and trusting. I wonder what this says about how truly I believe in the things I profess to believe.
On other news, it’s still winter here in New York City, and the tourists have learned to avoid my subways at quarter to nine in the morning.