When I was 17 I tore up the cartilage in my knee. It swelled up and got tight and clicked. Healed of course, but still wonky. It never occurred to me to talk about it with my parents. I would never have done that. Unthinkable. I've gone over this before.
Now it's the season of childhood, turbid and invigorating, feasts and gift-giving. A lovely time. My father's birthday approaches. Sometimes I've considered the obligations of duty. But is this sort of thing necessary? He clearly dislikes me, has said so with actual words in English. And I'm less and less Christlike in my willingness to turn the other cheek. I don't understand the need to be so toxic. But I do understand it.
I am highly unmotivated to workout. It's been this way for half a year. Just not motivated. Been busy, after a manner of speaking, and that diffuses my energies, but it's not been actually taxing. Problem is, time is slipping away. Other men my age have position and accomplishments. I have a lost decade. My income has constricted, and will remain so for the foreseeable future. My energy and motivation have diminished. Well, there's a whole list I could check off. The as it were bright side is that I'm currently too muted to be depressed. Past Novembers have been nightmarish. So muted is good.
But we're told that unused talents will be taken away. You know, like in the afterlife. It would be justice, no, mercy, since to live with talents that are greater than one's eternal position of stewardship would be an imperfection, in Paradise. Better to lose IQ points, in the resurrection. I know, it's a paradox.
So much, so little. It's unmotivating to be unmotivated.