adventures in dysthymia

Monday, September 16, 2013

I, Workaholic

When I am fully engaged and working hard on a project is when I come closest to being happy.

Or maybe I am just so busy that I forget I am unhappy. It doesn’t matter; the end result is much the same.

There are many ways to shut out the world. Drugs. Work.

Hmm. Those are the only two I can think of, actually. All else is a variation; indeed, I suppose work is no different from a drug. Hence the term ‘workaholic.’

Those variations — reading and study, playing games, chasing after sex. They all serve the same purpose, to keep us from stepping back and looking at our emptiness.

But look we must. To work all the time, to sedate oneself, is to never explore. The work becomes meaningless.

We must pull some truth out of that void and throw it onto a canvas, tack it to a page, sing it to the heavens. And that, ah, that takes work.

Work in which we can lose ourselves and just maybe approach happiness.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

Post a Comment