Why Being Unmotivated is The Scariest Not Scary Reality
2018 is now officially underway and once again I’m thankful that I saved myself the trouble of guilt-trips over untouched resolutions that were supposed to be activated by now.
The way things are shaping up — I may never gather the momentum that initiates the level of progress that keeps us assuredly hopeful for the endless possibilities in the realm of our interests.
The whole idea is to welcome the new year with the rage of exuberant cells that converge to elevate your status in ways that determine how well you could finish the race — that pits you against impressive competition — and the torrent of daily tweets — tormenting you with what is pending when inaction is your constant companion.
Since I moved back to the east coast and to a town that doesn’t resemble the landscape of the more glitzy etches of my not so distant past — I’ve been hibernating in the pretense that I have all the time in the world — when I actually don’t.
My regimen of hitting the gym every morning and then spewing out self-assigned content was acceptable a couple of months ago — but I can’t escape the fact that aside from a refreshingly ambitious project that was unexpectedly delivered to rev up my slow-moving engine — I haven’t felt the urge to hit the pedal with gusto.
This mind state should be a frightening realization even if I’m able to ignore the pangs of vivid contemplation.
Social media is both friend and foe when you’re navigating the visuals of those who are kicking ass in your absence. When you get to be older — the blows are harder to take when you’re challenged with the task of examining spreadsheets filled with testimonies that surpass anything you will accomplish in this lifetime.
The recipients of this good fortune are mostly a decade or more younger and even if they’re your age mates — it doesn’t really matter because what they all share in common is their ability to consistently massage the muscles of motivation — until the stiffness is relaxed into a smoother surface that has been fashioned for enviable progress.
I’m not motivated. I haven’t been motivated in over a year.
At first it was scary as fuck to watch how little I cared about devising a plan for my craft. You’re a decent writer with a healthy following and you’ve curated a shitload of essays that could possibly be turned into something fruitful and inspiring. There are options waiting to be hatched out by someone who is literally sitting on a gold mine and wildly refuses to do any minting.
But there is a flip side to being stuck in limbo while more coordinated dashers whiz on by with authoritative privilege.
The pressure to keep up with the Kardashians and all the vibrant Instagrammers — paired with lifestyle brands or the backdrop of exotic locales is an overwhelming schedule that none of us should have to manage. Then you have the retweeted tweets announcing book deals, guest appearances and upcoming goodies that make your inadequate status rise to threatening levels that confirm your “vagrant” status.
Then it hits you that this time of mental waste is perhaps the break you’ve been searching for or the gift you earned — just by being human. Those tendencies aren’t celebrated anymore because they’re considered extinct and limiting. We are supposed to be on that grind 24/7 in order to avoid the dishonor of being trampled on or even worse — dethroned.
We have to spend a shitload of time and energy keeping our timelines appetizing enough to warrant the attention that is required for the steady climb in numbers that endorse our passable engagements. The responsibilities that come with being bot-like humans is rapidly re-shaping our thought process — to the point that we no longer see what is there and instead hype on the energy of the trending consensus.
If most believe that Erykah Badu has lost her shit — then it has to be true — even when the words and the sentiment behind them blatantly reveal something deeper and more meaningful that would’ve definitely been viewed as insightfully profound back in 2002.
So, maybe it does feel good to be in a place that is imposingly quiet with the direction of recapturing the tendons of not really knowing what the fuck to do next.
Perhaps it should be empowering to have all the noise of success closing in on you like over-fed vultures as you cower to the meekness of potentially having to start afresh without the armor of youth and an in-built system of loyalists.
Mirrors never lie — and what we see in the light or dark can’t be filtered with “likes” or “shares” that were invented to give us the lie that never matches the moments of truth we spend way too much effort trying to evade — for the betterment of the version of ourselves that never existed.
I’m not scared to own up to the fact that I may never realize my full potential — neither am I opposed to how quickly things can turn in my favor after I allow the period of rest/unrest to exhaust me into what will be.
I’m scared shitless of losing the vulnerability that humbles us into submission at the most inconvenient period of our lives. The reminder is vicious and unnerving.
And honestly — it’s the best part.