Often, I look at something without really looking at it. Hypnotism isn't at all needed anymore. All I need to do is think of this perpetual list of the everyday and find myself in this state of consciousness. I become a machine, a raging Tetsuo hybrid, that has lost my voluntary powers to work. Once I lift that screen and the automaton buzz from the laptop welcomes my attention, I am gone. Off I go -- into the oblivion that is called a busy life. My fingers adhere to my keyboard and my retina adjusts itself to the life-light of Jobs-ian technology.
Then, I wake up. I unhypnotize and meditate instead on the devaluation of my time by making these little schedules and lists. And yet -- I still do them! Should I listen to Emerson and proceed to chant that my foolish consistency is this mythical creature telling me that I am violating my human nature? I would like to think that hobgoblins are quite adorable. But damn are they tricky little critters that turn that mirror around and show those dark circles forming under my eyes, those cracking wrists from excessive typing, those pinkish red stress pimples forming slight mounds on my chin.
Yes, I am busy. Busy doing what is the essential question. Discovering who is the key. Even in Thailand, where I would think the destination allows me to un-busy myself, there is still that idea of busy with work equals busy with life, resulting in hardly a life. I brought my life here, not necessarily to escape the busy-ness. But to redefine it.
I am still redefining it. And I am not giving up. But first: I will occupy myself with some fresh fruit while listening to the exuberant cries of toads and birds competing with the faint hum of a city winding down from another busy day.