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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo


It's basic physics. An object at rest stays at rest. Until the days and weeks bleed into one another. Until the object begins to bleed into the furniture, desperately wishing to be a less definite state of matter, to ooze into the bedsheets or dissipate and dance among the dust motes so as to prolong the insurmountable task of peeling oneself out of bed and getting the day started.

Whether faced with a mountain of obligations or none, the reaction is always the same: no reaction. Inertia. Paralysis. Every day achieving the bare minimum levels of hygiene and exercise and nourishment deemed necessary to seem surface-level functional. Going through motions any time an outside force acts upon the object at rest, its kinetic deadlines and emails and (the horror) phone calls momentarily defibrillating the object into action. Otherwise, still. Static. Stagnant.

The object's days at rest are numbered, and the object doesn't know how to feel about this. On the one hand, the object has learned that, when left to its own devices, the object does not operate well with little to no structure. On the other hand, the object worries that, once it resumes a life of routine and busywork, sure, it will once again give the object's life a semblance of superficial meaning, but when all's said and done, isn't busyness, a la Kierkegaard, the sign of an unhappy, purposeless object?

So first, small steps. Make a list. Accomplish tasks. Rinse, repeat.

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