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Daily life is daily failure: a struggle against the overactive inertia of ‘being productive.’ I have never been productive: I have just been, productivity only ever being a (happy?) side-effect of being in the first place. When I have ‘free’ time, I compulsively think of ways to better myself, or to make something. One universal feature of contemporary life is simply the total absence of leisure; ironically, we are conditioned to instantly converted the possibility of leisure into something with payoff, consequence. There is no more beautiful purposelessness; our existence is justifiable only in terms of its relationship to our resume.
The only genuinely productive task that I can think of is the production of soulfulness: a robust interiority connected with, or even better, co-extensive with, the divine.
True thinking is a release from thinking, that is: a deconstruction of the thinking of the collective, and a reconstruction of the thinking of the individual as an individual. So many of our thoughts are just regurgitations of Internet detritus.
