I lead a pretty fast-paced life, eating most meals on the go or having them delivered, making calls on the subway, rushing from one errand and place to the next with no time to unwind. So when I get home at the end of the day, all I want to do is vegetate with a TV show or the internet. I didn’t feel so bad about this when I had a well-paying job that worked me hard, but now that I’m unemployed, this pathetic routine has made me feel worthless.
This experiment has given me a chance to slow down, think and record my thoughts, and work in a more disciplined manner. And I think it’s worth noting that last night was my first nightmare-free sleep in more than a week.
I normally don’t do daily life posts because they tend to be inane and uninteresting. However, I’m making an exception for this series because 1) it could be interesting since I’m not talking to anyone; and 2) I need to keep a record anyway to later evaluate my productivity under these conditions. I’m highlighting the instances of interpersonal communication in red.
1/31 ~ 2/1
6:42am: In bed, trying to sleep. Drafted automated message.
7:18am: Oh no, I forgot to fill my prescription
7:22am: Wrote rules for the project
7:34am: Oh shit, I was gonna to go LanguageCast today
4:30pm: Woke up. Replied to colleague’s messages. Watered plants.
5:30pm: Made and had blueberry pancakes, egg, coffee
She trudged on, directionless but fueled, her rage focused on the patches of pavement shifting and trembling beneath her favorite shoes.
He’d looked at her with unfocused, uninterested eyes. He’d shaken her hand. He’d politely led her into his office and waited for her to sit.
The wind snuck its way into the hole between her scarf folds. She covered it absent-mindedly and walked faster. A pigeon scuttled in circles in her path. She stopped and thought back to the clock.
It was round, standard, white. She’d stared at it at the start of the interview, trying to recall the Stranger’s emotions. She didn’t mean to stare at it; it merely interrupted the path of her gaze, and she found it alarmingly blank. The priest? “I don’t remember,” she said. She couldn’t remember any of the plots of the books she mentioned, only impressions, the smoke that trailed off, the “faint remainder,” “the gentle indifference of the world.” So what if he didn’t visit the priest?