The Loss of Passion

Of late, I've lost my passion. Or maybe I've just noticed that the passion is gone. Ten years ago, if I wasn't sleeping, I was either listening to music, playing music, or writing -- mostly words but sometimes music. I had a real passion for writing and for music back then. (Of course, I was lonely and depressed and surrounded by people who seemed to be quite content with their lot in life, so I had a lot to write about.)

But that passion just isn't there anymore. I am completely unmotivated to do anything. To get anything done, I need to put it on a list of things to do so it doesn't just flitter out of my memory.

I go home and sit down and tell myself that I'll just play on the PS2 for, oh, maybe half and hour. Two hours later, I turn off the games and go hunt for dinner. I know there are things I ought to be doing, and I tell myself, out loud sometimes, what I ought to be doing.

But still I sit on that couch.

I feel like I'm constantly waiting for the next thing to happen, instead of making the next thing happen. I'm just so unmotivated. Maybe I'm just lazy. Maybe it's pre-traumatic stress disorder.

There are a few glimmers: I did sit down and start writing my novel (for the fourth time) two nights ago. I got about a page and a half in when my brother-in-law called. By the time I hung up the phone, I felt like S.T. Coleridge. I could no longer write anything worthwhile.

That'll teach me to answer the phone. My caller ID works just fine; it's my thumb that needs to be fixed.