Sometimes I wonder why I do what I do. I am a little aggrieved that I still experience this level of adolescent angst about my place and value in the world. Surely I would have (should have) grown out of this? Surely one reaches a point in one’s life where one can say: Righto. Here I am and this is what I do and I am content.
Part of my problem is that I just don’t like full-time working. It’s not that I am innately lazy (at least, I hope not).
There is so much that I want to do, and learn, and read, and write, and observe, and muse, and create – and full-time work does not allow me the time to do very much of it, and sometimes, it does not let me do any of it.
And sleep. I resent sleep too. Why do I need so much of it?