I'm afraid my impulsive decision to post this blog is unlikely to result in a display of poetic prose or inspiring literature and instead you'll be subjected to the ramblings of my scatty mind. My thoughts are anything but clear, particularly when under the habitual influence of caffiene, computer screen and melancholy melody. In fact you could use such pretentious wordplay to write a book about my daily life. I jest, I'm not that sad. This is the internet, everyone's interesting and original on the internet... ;).
Moving on to the dismal&dark depths of my mind...
Ever since I can remember I've had a low concentration span/boredom threshold. At the risk of sounding childish, it's an immovable force that blocks my progress and aids my procrastination. Laziness, thought detestable, is a footprint of my personality. I do attempt to be productive, I just get distracted/busy/booked up/thinking/talking/singing and I leave whatever said thing is to the 'last minute'. I regret it afterwards and tell myself I won't do it again. Of course, you and I both know that I'm lying, only with the purest intentions. I like to imagine a change of scenery and greater sense of purpose will change this negative pattern but I partially believe it's an inherent trait. I try to make plans. I try to make decisions and not change my mind. I may not be Doing a great deal but I do Do a great deal of Thinking. And when I think, I think about doing. Thing is, while I'm thinking about doing what I think I should be doing, I wonder what the point is. Unexpected, I'm sure but true nontheless.
From my constant observation, I see hopelessness all around me. People plan their lives away and rarely do the great things happen. Often, when they do they aren't quite what they expected. I don't want a 9-5 job in an office with a boss I can't stand because it means I can pay off a mortgage on my bricks&water and start a family with my soon to be detested husband. Or even worse. We'll get bored of each other. And divorce; the way that so many marriages go. Producing children that you want to love you and make your aging days worth it when in reality they'll convince themselves they hate you during adolescence and treat you with less respect than you once imagined. Pessimistic, perhaps. Realistic? Possibly. Don't get me wrong, I'm actually quite the incurable optimist but I've been posessed by a brand of realism that isn't so uplifting when you grow up in the depressing pseudo-suburbia of greater London/Essex/nowhere land. So when I'm dizzying myself in the ambitious heights of my mind I often wonder why I bother when my laziness and probable future sets out to go against my 'plans'.
Thinking is powerful but doing is better.