A.D.D.

2.30am. The more anxious you are to sleep, the less likely it will come.

Is it possible to contract A.D.D. and dyslexia at this age? Isn't it supposed to be a developmental problem, ie something you have as a child and not when you're in your 30's? Oh my poor brain, you vex me so!

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The thing about journal writing is that it's a point in time capture. So despite the passing of years which possibly (probably) has affected a change of heart or mind, that point remains immortalized. Frozen like a fly in amber. Codified as doctrine.

Looking back and reflecting isn't necessarily wise. How do you know what to believe? What is still true and what has evolved? Which of the bad has turned to good and which of the good has turned to bad? Reconciling the then and the now is both confusing and futile.

A thought struck me that day. I have spent an enormous amount of time, years upon years, thinking about something that should have been in the bag. A done deal. A resolved case. And yet, here I am still expanding tremendous energy ruminating, mulling over, agonizing. What a colossal waste.

This is time I could have spent plotting to take over the world. And I might even have achieved that by now!

Doubt. Fear. Self-delusion.

That reminds me, I need to read Betrand Russell's 'New hopes for a changing world'.

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("Am I sleepy yet?", my A.D.D. brain asks.)

Soundbites

The one thing they really need to have on Blogger is the ability to lock certain posts and make it private or for a certain audience only. How is something so basic still not a standard feature? 

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I'm tempted to summarize the past 3 years in one paragraph, but oh man, why bother? Leave it a mystery.

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I was thinking the other day that the existential crisis-es of the 20's are over and I've ushered in the age of materialism/consumerism. Gone are the plaintive cries of "Who am I?" and "What does it all mean?!!" and in their place is "What can I buy?", "Where do I want to go?" and "What shall I do with my leisure time?". I still haven't found my calling so to speak, but it has somehow ceased to matter for some time now. As long as the work that funds the pleasurable activities do not intrude in the partaking of those activities, I'm quite a happy camper. 

The situation may have something to do with having reached my comfortable earning point. Sure people will always say that more is better. But I think when people reach that point where they have no pain and find themselves with more than enough to go around, whatever made up ambition they once had for a job that inspires no passion just fades away. I'm not at all ashamed to admit this. I'll always be very good at what I do, but I don't aspire to greatness, not because it's hard but because I don't care enough.

Oh what a a fat cat I've become.

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There aren't any good bloggers to read anymore. No one has an original thought in their head nor the ability to form a witty turn of phrase. No one is funny and self-deprecating while still being insightful of the (their) human condition.

Of course I exagerate, but whiny kids moaning in post after post about their trivial concerns and inconsequential lives puts me in a murderous frame of mind. 

Violence is the answer! :)