I wondered the other day whether I'm trying to do too much. The last two days have managed to include: one karate lesson; one singing rehearsal; one orchestra rehearsal; reading two and a half novels; writing a long 'creative' LJ post and a link-saturated blog-style LJ post; one supermarket shopping trip; and enough work (including one edition of the Reporter) that my employers aren't complaining. The problem is then I write it all down and look at it and think "Not ENOUGH! I'm NOT DOING ENOUGH!"
I resent having to sleep. I stay up till 2am reading and wake up at 8am. (There'll be time enough for sleeping when we're dead.) I read while I'm brushing my teeth so the time isn't totally wasted on tedious bits of life-maintenance. I'm trying to live nine lives in one. (It's about being able to fly; it's about dying nine times.) And I'm still not achieving anything. Why can't I put all this effort and energy into something worthwhile rather than endless, pointless middle-class hobbies? What the hell is worthwhile anyway?
This post brought to you by Janet's Teenage Brain.
I need a holiday.
