When i get caught up, usually in regret. I stop, doing things. It’s, an ingrained habit. I just, pop up whatever the most mind numbing thing I can find is (usually Team Fortress 2), and I go in. Factoring these, breakdowns, regular occurrences, I’m left with probably 6 and a half hours a day.
Sometimes I wonder, about how much we’re limited by our minds. These lumps of flesh that we’re born with. That we entrust with so much. Did you know that in a scientific study, participants who were asked to fill out a survey on political opinions, but then had the wrong answers fed back to them and asked to explain their views, didn’t notice anything wrong? The mind led them on a journey, and the will followed, explaining away everything.
Who is me?
You know how sometimes you see people, who can do nothing but spit gold. The Toby Foxes of the world. I’m sure you can think of a few. People whose minds are so vivid, filled with color, that everyones just scrambling to take even the smallest peek in, and they’re glad to show it.
Ever since I can remember, i’ve wanted to share with others. I’ve had stories i wanted to tell, grand narratives, small introspections. Bursting out the seams. And I’ve tried. Mostly never gotten off the ground. There’s an old adage, that 90% of everything is garbage and so, it’s reasonable to expect that, 9 out of 10 of everything i try to share, bombs. That's not strange.
What am I sharing though? Am I sharing these individual snippets, pulled out of the void?
No.
I’m sharing, myself. My worlds. My mind. What if that, falls into the 90%.
What if, no matter how much i will it to not be so, my mind, an unchanging hunk of flesh. Is just not worth sharing. In any capacity. Stories that’ve been told. Lame corruptions of what’s come before. Weird daydreams that no ones interested in. Ridiculous ramblings on questions that have already been answered. Questions that noone asked. D&D stories that’re fantastic for the experiencer but mean nothing to anyone but them. Incomprehensible in-jokes. Heads up their own asses so far they come out the mouth again in ouroboros of the self ultimately meaning everything to me but nothing to nooone.
And no matter how my will aches for it. I cannot share what is not mine. This is all I will ever have. So what if it’s not enough?
After some borderline obsessive time tracking, I plotted a graph over the last two years. Of the productive hours that I've spent in a day.
96.5% of it is below a certain mark no matter how much I have tried to work more.
I will never have more.