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Habits feel good; habits are womb from which we never want to be born: infantilization is something we not only prefer, its a process we create for ourselves. There are so many things I do in the first fifteen minutes after I wake that I could not do, but the stripping-away of which would force me to reckon with myself in ways that I’m not comfortable with. I went to bed the last few nights feeling slightly disquieted, for various reasons; why is it that I wake up read about basketball or politics or check my email or a dating app instead of think about my own state of being — or the states of being of the people I care about or have simply come in contact with? Some part of me insists on being a lazy teenager at all costs, as if I could not bear too much adult reality — which I know I actually can. We lower the standard for a meaningful life through a million micro-actions; the bar creeps infinitesimally lower every second. I’m going to die one day, but I live like there is no horizon, no end, not significance: I feel flat, trivial. I write to change that feeling, presumably.
