Belphegor

I have confessed to this sin before (here) and the situation of course has not changed in the time since I wrote that piece a bare couple of months ago;  my physical sloth is as entrenched, torpid and intransigent as ever.  I would like to think my mind is mildly more energized than usual with the buzz that a weekend flurry of writing activity brings, the sense of achievement of actually having done something, but I think that as usual it is in Sunday evening mode.  Looking in a forward direction without actually looking forward to taking up the reins once more, fighting the same fucking battles with the same annoying people, and above all fighting my own apathy.  Perhaps this is why I am such an irritable cow, why little things annoy me out of all proportion and I let myself respond; the exasperation actually drives me to do things, say things when I would by nature wish to slump back down and let them wash over me like a warm bath. 

As I spend so much time blog-browsing, I should perhaps rejoice when I read inane, repetitive, badly written and badly spelt, shallow cliche ridden pieces as this fires up my mental engines, fuels them up with hot sarcastic coals instead of laying down by the embers and wondering some time later how long they have been cold.  The only cure for sloth is creativity, and even carefully crafted cutting remarks can feel creative at times.





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