I know there is something to this blog because whenever I read past entries, it makes me want to blog. It might be several months or more before I come back and reread something, but it’s happened the past few times now that some creative impulse sparks and I end up posting. That’s the workflow pipeline apparently! I write what’s needed to compel my future self to write.
I want to extrapolate and apply this process elsewhere in my life, in the many, many areas where I need to make myself do something that takes effort. It’s the exact magic potion counterforce to procrastination and laziness that I’m looking for. How I can reframe those things this way, I have no idea. I’m not going to come across a pile of laundry and, rummaging through old clothes, feel any new urge to do laundry. I can’t even get the premise and analogy right.
I’ve lost myself. I mourn my old gone self with sorrow. I sat still with horror when I realized what was happening, when I saw and felt my old self die piece by piece, and that I couldn’t save myself, at all. As my memories flee and I’m forgetting, my old self, built up on and around and sprung from those memories, has collapsed and similarly blown away.
It’s not just a matter of forgetting myself that makes me say my old self died. The things I do remember of my old self make it even more obvious that I’m not that person anymore.
It’s not me saying I’ve grown and changed and become a better person either. Not at all. The very opposite, probably. What I was is gone. I’m not anything now, and I was actually a person back then with an evident identity. I don’t know who or what I am now.
Recent memories of myself do not support any identifiable persona; instead of scaffolding, it’s a mound of mush. My sense of self is sitting in a mound of mush.