It’s not that the Cave is an unpleasant place. The Cave itself is fine. It would be nice to have one comfortable
chair, but besides that, it’s okay.
There’s nothing wrong with the Cave; it’s what I do (or don’t do) in the
Cave that’s the problem.
I do enough
housekeeping to keep the Cave tidy and vermin free, and. of course, I have to
feed myself. The rest of the time I am
sitting or lying, and reading, or napping, or looking at TV/YouTube, or playing video games, or
getting high. I don’t do anything
productive.
There are things I could do. I could complete the collection of short
stories. It’s just about finished
already. The “Battle of the Bugs”
diorama is ready for assembly. But I
haven’t the motivation, nor the inclination, to work at these projects.
I’d like to, but I don’t want to. I don’t know if it’s an aspect of the aging process, or if it is only
further evidence of the deterioration of my addled mind. There is this constant feeling of futility
that follows me like a foul odor.
Every time I try to stir myself into action, the questions
come up:
So what? Who cares? What difference will it make?
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