Nothing is perfect

For the most part of today, I did absolutely nothing.

It feels great.

It seems that I’ve been too busy living life lately. Or at times, helping someone else live their lives (directing your Sims to go toilet, go sleep, go mop up their own pee, go woo hoo, go grab the maid’s butt, stop signaling me to shove something down their throat and go woo hoo some more, is strangely addictive *shrugs*).

For too long a time, I’ve been doing things. All sorts of things. Some I like, some I love, some I hate, some that almost killed me but made me stronger, stranger but on the whole, suicidal. I occupy myself, or I let life occupy me. If there’s nothing to do, I’ll feel like a lump. A very anxious lump.

But today, I let myself go. I played no games, I napped for goodness knows how many hours (usually I’ll painstakingly set the alarm clock lest I waste too much precious breathing moments lying down), I watched an eye-candy of a teen drama about basketball and hot dudes, I chatted with my mum for a bit, I’m sitting in front of the computer and blogging.

It’s like spinning around madly in the circuit and finally finding my brakes.

People have told me that I take things too seriously, on more than one occasion, in more than one way. Passion and zest and ambition and dreams are all great, necessary, even. But sometimes, it’s good to just slump forward into my bed. Let the world move on, I’ll catch up later.

Don’t confuse procrastination with rest. I believe that we do the former all our life, but always forgot about the latter.

Trust me. I, with my ignored pile of work, would know.