Just another fine morning. I wore the hats of placement coordinator, volunteer for a film festival, a screen-writer, and an unprepared host who apparently gave no reactions in a talk show. Even as I scribble away this blog right now, I feel an urge of shutting it down and focusing upon the preparation of an anchoring script for the volunteering thing.
Meanwhile, my guitar is eyeing me with contempt for not practising, the novel Sacred Games sitting on my bedside feels out of place and appears to be missing its home -- the library, and right beside it my table tennis racket sits bored and silent as the tap-tap of the soft ping-pong ball is not charging the air around me. Somewhere in the depths of my laptop, I hear the shrill voice of the characters of the comic I am reading as they laugh or cry off their sorrows. I did manage to fit in a 10-minute work-out, so my yoga mat, despite being rolled up in the corner, is satisfied.
We try to hoard tasks as if they are gold, but run away from facing them as if they are those crazy stray-dogs. I am not really sure how much of this makes me actually happy, but I am happy to think I am keeping busy. Or staying Productive, if you like.
Last week, I was practising my guitar for about an hour and a half, and I felt unhappy that I don't practise it enough. Didn't really practise it in the entire week, to be fair. Two days back, I started with a new comic book series, and reading it made me really happy. It warmed my heart would go close to what I felt. But now, its intrest graph has come down, and the guilt graph is kicking up again as I scroll through issue after issue, fruitlessly seeking the fun I once derived from it, only to justify the time I spent on it instead of working towards my projects.
Why is it that I feel happy when I do mundane work but get visible shit done, or not, but guilty when I try to seek happiness?
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