You weren't, like, expecting me to update this were you?

So I went from feeling terrible to being busy and exhausted all the time, without any middle ground, really. This isn't exactly what I had in mind for the start of my year.

So anyway, I've mostly rejoined the ranks of the living, although I still have occasional fits of coughing and I'm occasionally exhausted for what seems to be no reason at all. It's driving me batty.

I'm going through that thing again where I wonder why it is I live here and why I haven't moved yet. There's a root cause buried underneath all this, and I still can't quite get to the bottom of it. It basically comes down to the concept that once upon a time I wasn't mostly apathetic about everything. I did, at some point in my life, care about something.

I really think the universe has failed me in this regard. I used to care. Now I can't be bothered. What has me flummoxed is that I still care that I don't care anymore. If you will.

It's not that I'm particularly angsty or that I hate my life -- it's not that at all. My life is entirely comfortable, which I think is actually the source of all this. Comfortable is not particularly a state that inspires. The whole idea behind comfort is that there's nothing there which might make you, well, aspire to change your circumstance.

So I have achieved middle-class stasis without really trying. This is the story of just about every success I've had. I've done as little as possible to succeed comfortably, but not really anything more. The middling successes tend to accumulate, as I'm sure any middle manager is well aware. The contradiction here is that once I'm involved in something, anything, I immerse myself competely and overdo whatever it happens to be.

From non-involvement to saturation in one easy step.

Anyway, I've got this comfortable existence and I'm not particularly excited about it. There are any number of things I'd change if they didn't require effort.

The problem, if you'll excuse my spoiled little upper middle class suburban upbringing, is that I've never really suffered and I've never had to work for anything. So the whole idea of doing anything that might, say, result in me going back to eating ramen several times a week, or result in my running up credit card balances I can't actually pay, or any other number of middle class horrors (if you will) keeps me right where I am. Which is to say not particularly happy, but not uncomfortable.

The potential goals are contradictory, too. One, I move back to the middle of the country where I belong -- and I do most certainly belong there. Two, I get serious about the opera thing.

I talk a good game on the opera thing, but I've been accused more than once of not wanting it enough. And I do, but I don't. I can't get past the part where it's hard. When I'm devoting the time to it, I get more out of it than I get out of anything. When I'm not in the midst of it, though, I can't turn my focus back to it. Any shiny thing, and I'm gone.

The demon that most singers fight is the fear that they don't have the talent. My demon is the fear that I don't have the will. I've gotten where I have based mostly on talent, with very little effort. This is how I know I'd be successful -- where would I be if I'd only practiced all this time?

This is as close to depression or self loathing as I get. I can't get past the hard part without focus, and focus is something I lack, especially when I'm otherwise comfortable.

So from the outside, it's easy enough to coast. I could get another job in another city, buy a house, settle down, and be well enough off.

And not happy.

(16 jan)