Today is one of the days where I kneel humbled by my grief. I am not bowled over by it, I am not stressed about it, I am simply shaken by it.
Whether we mean it or not, productivity is charged with a complex definition; what you produce has to be something we can measure against society’s standards, and it has to be useful.
Motivation feels like a flying bird: in your eye line for a second, and then gone forever more.
It started grating on me so much, that I felt irrationally angry whenever I had my lamp on and realised that the Feeble Light was still on, doing his best to grace me with his presence. Yet, he was so dim I did not idea he was there.
Why do we have this self-imposed idea that throughout our lives we are meant to maintain a perfect, crisp version of ourselves? Like untouched snow, or fresh school shoes that we don’t want to scratch.