The demotivation of andy

I am a rather motivated person. I work far more than 40 hours a week; truthfully, it’s closer to 60. And yet, when I’m here at my parents’ house, I lack motivation. A ghastly situation for one such as myself.

Perhaps it’s this desolate place? Sucking the neurons from my brain, turning me into an abject comsumer of television and wasted time.

Fortunately, I’ve managed to do some intellectual activities. Reading modernist literature has dominated my time, though many hours have been wasted on trifles. I suppose I shouldn’t, can’t complain. I’m on vacation after all, and I ought to act like it. Kick back, watch a movie or two, relax. Deep down in my entrails, I despise doing nothing. Not doing what I ought rather be doing.

I’m not-Andy and this is my not-life
not learning and not studying
reading and relaxing
hushed conversion with words spilling too fast, modulated candences of togetherness
not-cooking, not-going into the office

it’s a different life for me this time of betweeness between school between reality and these banal repititions of indolences.