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It is 5am and I Give Up

I have no real motivation to do anything. Not to be awake, not to go to sleep. Not to stay here, not to go anywhere else. It’s a tricky thing, this motivation. Humans, as it would seem, need a reason to do anything. That reason can be as little arbitrary bullshit as some ancient societal structure that is simply outdated by literally everything that constitutes the modern era of information, but nonetheless it is some reasoning that some human finds enough to be motivated. People, on average, are apparently easy to motivate. Superficial things like status and temporary situations are enough to do the trick.

How, then, am I motivated? What makes me happy? What makes me willing to put any effort forth for something? No clue. I simply have no clue. In the past, it seems I’ve done things simply because I could and would otherwise be bored. At my job that I’m going to quit later today, for instance, I manage to get quite a bit done. It isn’t as if I actually care about the success of the business, or how much my coworkers think well of me as they see me accomplish whatever arbitrary bullshit our manager decided that we should work on that particular night. No, for the most part I only do anything there because as long as they’re paying me to not leave, I should stay in order to obtain that money so I can ignore money in general otherwise, and as long as I’m there, being paid, I might as well keep busy.

I texted my assistant manager today that I didn’t want to go. I didn’t call because I didn’t feel like talking, and every time I try to call in they make it into some sort of argument. “But we’re busy,” they will say. “Can you at least come in and do this much?” they will ask me. I don’t want to go, I’m having an existential crisis and I haven’t slept in days.

We should bike to the state park. It was an idea my brother had when I had already invested into not being at work. At first I really didn’t want to, I had already made my stance for the day: zero motivation to do anything other than lay there and accept the fact that I have no emotional connection to reality or the persons within. Eventually I figured that a state park in the fall is as good a place as any to be having an existential crisis. “Where’s your bike?” asked my brother, as I was tying my shoes atop the stairs. I thought he was fucking with me, trying to get me to freak out. It’s supposed to be just out in the driveway. Apparently he was only asking because he figured I would know where my bike is. In the past, I have left it at the science hall, because I would bike to class then end up walking to some other building with other people for lunch or whatnot. This wasn’t the case. We checked. We looked at all the bike racks I would have locked it to and more. Somebody stole my bike.

I kept it out in the driveway because out front door opens inward into the small entrance area, which is then taken up by my roommate’s bike which he refused to move or ever fucking use. I wouldn’t care so much if I hadn’t just lost my van. Things that weren’t oil had gotten into the oil tank. When it originally stopped running in the middle of an intersection at the end of an onramp, we pushed it over to the side of the road and checked the oil. I thought it looked a bit high, but everyone else just said it was dirty. Dirty as in gasoline not oil, apparently. So, I can’t really just leave this boring little town without a week’s preparation and involving other people. But at least I could bike anywhere in town… not anymore, somebody stole my god damn bike.

Why the fuck would you steal a bike around here? Where could you possibly need to go that warrants stealing somebody else’s bike? Especially when there are public bikes free to use. I suppose the public ones are a bit bad, and I didn’t lock my bike up. Because, you know, here in the glorious United States of America, if you don’t protect your property then you clearly have no right to own it. I made this same point earlier, and my brother mentioned the one exception: slaves. Which is really fucked up, but it is true that we forced slaves to go back to their ‘owners,’ even without the ‘owners’ ever really helping enforce it. Oh, the lengths people will go to just to protect their stupid structures.

On Friday, I bought a suit jacket, my birthday is coming up and my mother said she would buy it for me but it would take a while because she needed to do budgeting things. I figured it was easier for me to just buy it myself, I had the money, whatever. When I tried put it on, with a white collared shirt and a black tie, my mother said I looked like Stalin. It did look hella twentieth century, though. I’m not normally one to be so easily motivated by capitalistic things, like buying clothes, but it did sort of complete a style. The idea of something actually being complete in my life was rather satisfying. I was almost motivated to do something, but seeing as I had all of my notebooks and a few textbooks and yet did absolutely no schoolwork would say otherwise.

This did take a bit of the edge off, however. The edge I had because I had just gotten out of a session with my therapist where I had complained about how unmotivated I had been. For a solid hour I bitched about how I was unable to naturally pick up on my 400-level physics classes. How I couldn’t think as clearly as I used to. I somehow brought this back around to good old existentialism. The illusion of choice. I can’t really believe in choice. He said this would definitely make him feel unmotivated, to think that nothing he could do would ever have any effect on reality. But it isn’t just philosophy, I just don’t feel like reality matters. Like there’s a disconnect between the theory of the world and the actuality.

The pros and cons of ever doing anything. The complete apathy on the other side of the coin. He said that if I didn’t care about people then what’s to stop me from going into a therapy session and never revealing anything about myself. I told him I would never do that and lightly laughed for a good minute. I do that all the fucking time. I don’t know me and I don’t know how to talk about me. This is me talking about me. I think, but I really don’t know.

Being comfortable around people has never felt natural to me. Another thing we talked about. People in oppressive situations tend to grow closer. A mean/strict teacher or a jerk of a manager will meet the criteria for this. People would agree their situation is bad and bond together to survive. On the other hand, I don’t really care to be treated like shit, it’s either annoying or has no effect on me. In both cases, I can’t relate to all the other people. I don’t really care about other people.

Have I ever? I guess I did sort of once. I tend to have expectations for people that I never really expect them to meet. She did, she always did. It was absurd. She defined my perfect and I don’t think anyone I will ever meet will meet that perfect ever again. Especially in this little town. I need to get out. I’ve lost my van and my bike and I just need to get the fuck out of here.

Whenever I think about my life, where I am, where I’ve been, I feel more like I’m telling a story I’ve made up than describing the life that I’ve lived. It’s so fucking abstract, this feeling. I don’t know how to describe it. Like my life is different every day. Yesterday was a dream. Tomorrow is a theory. Today is just an abstract idea.