Where No Oxen Are
There was a time...
It was a beautiful existence. I was active and in shape. The world revolved on a fast axis, and I wasn't about to be left behind. Every moment was an opportunity to be exploited. I had a firm grip on the horns of whatever bull happened to be thundering past.
Then I got old. I'm not sure if it was physical, emotional, spiritual, physchological, mental, or grammatical aging. All I know is that it changed me. I stopped caring about doing things. I blame it on college.
Most people spend their college years partying away the better half of their brains, and I'm glad to say I avoided that trap. I seem to have fallen victim to a more insidious vice--motivationlessness. Some of you may not know what I'm talking about. With a little effort, I could probably remember the days when I wouldn't have understood the topic of this post. Of course, I'm not going to bother trying, so I'm not positive I could. And that's exactly the problem.
I suppose problem may be too strong a word. See, the weird thing about not caring is that while I feel slightly disturbed by my torpidity, I'm not going to do anything about it. It's this vicious cycle that can not be remedied by anything I've experienced thus far.
Of course, this isn't to say that I'm never motivated. No, I am frequently motivated by a number of forces. The motivation never lasts, though. I used to have this driving force that pushed me at all times. I only had to direct it into the task at hand. I was a lot like a fire hydrant. I had this inner pressure that could be harnassed to douse a fire, beat back a roudy crowd, or provide blessed relief in the dog days of summer. I refused to stop the flow of activity for fear of inviting the dogs.
Anymore, I'm a pump. Crank me up, and I'll burst out with a result directly proportional to the amount of effort asked for. Maybe I'll surprise you with a little stronger flow than you were expecting. But most of my time is spent sitting in quiet repose for little kids to gawk at and old folks to reminisce over. Someday, I might fix that. At the moment, I just don't care.
It was a beautiful existence. I was active and in shape. The world revolved on a fast axis, and I wasn't about to be left behind. Every moment was an opportunity to be exploited. I had a firm grip on the horns of whatever bull happened to be thundering past.
Then I got old. I'm not sure if it was physical, emotional, spiritual, physchological, mental, or grammatical aging. All I know is that it changed me. I stopped caring about doing things. I blame it on college.
Most people spend their college years partying away the better half of their brains, and I'm glad to say I avoided that trap. I seem to have fallen victim to a more insidious vice--motivationlessness. Some of you may not know what I'm talking about. With a little effort, I could probably remember the days when I wouldn't have understood the topic of this post. Of course, I'm not going to bother trying, so I'm not positive I could. And that's exactly the problem.
I suppose problem may be too strong a word. See, the weird thing about not caring is that while I feel slightly disturbed by my torpidity, I'm not going to do anything about it. It's this vicious cycle that can not be remedied by anything I've experienced thus far.
Of course, this isn't to say that I'm never motivated. No, I am frequently motivated by a number of forces. The motivation never lasts, though. I used to have this driving force that pushed me at all times. I only had to direct it into the task at hand. I was a lot like a fire hydrant. I had this inner pressure that could be harnassed to douse a fire, beat back a roudy crowd, or provide blessed relief in the dog days of summer. I refused to stop the flow of activity for fear of inviting the dogs.
Anymore, I'm a pump. Crank me up, and I'll burst out with a result directly proportional to the amount of effort asked for. Maybe I'll surprise you with a little stronger flow than you were expecting. But most of my time is spent sitting in quiet repose for little kids to gawk at and old folks to reminisce over. Someday, I might fix that. At the moment, I just don't care.
At 1:39 PM,
welcome to life after college
At 8:44 PM,
Justin, two words. Group Project.
Is it humanly possible to be less motivated? Every time I even began to ponder the ramifications of educational assimilation for today's American Indian youth, I could barely bring myself to type "indian" into google.
At 8:50 PM,
Great. I think it's contagious, and you passed it on to me. I've been doing anything but studying for my huge EAPT test tomorrow, and all I can seem to do is google the lyrics to "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." If you figure it out, let me know...