- 07 Dec, 2025 *
Today was supposed to be a big day productivity-wise, I told myself so yesterday evening while I was decompressing with my feet up.
I awoke and the decompressing seems to have continued. The pressure hasn’t built up high enough within my boiler to spur my limbs to mechanic action. I can feel that there is a leak of air through the end of my finger tips, the puttering is soft and listening to the pitter-patter of the air escaping through the narrow openings is a lullaby. If only I could seal myself off and begin to swell, so that I would have built up enough internal pressure to spur myself to action.
If I turn my hands to fists, I can feel the pressure build, but as…
- 07 Dec, 2025 *
Today was supposed to be a big day productivity-wise, I told myself so yesterday evening while I was decompressing with my feet up.
I awoke and the decompressing seems to have continued. The pressure hasn’t built up high enough within my boiler to spur my limbs to mechanic action. I can feel that there is a leak of air through the end of my finger tips, the puttering is soft and listening to the pitter-patter of the air escaping through the narrow openings is a lullaby. If only I could seal myself off and begin to swell, so that I would have built up enough internal pressure to spur myself to action.
If I turn my hands to fists, I can feel the pressure build, but as soon as I release them again–to clean the kitchen or to type out my writing–the pressure falls off and I’m right back where I started.
Or is the hearth is under-fired? Perhaps the small man within me who is meant to be shoveling coal into the elaborate and clandestine hearth of my motivation has failed me. Perhaps he himself is decompressing.
Maybe he spent the morning writing nonsense, too.