Spas(mod)ic

Consistency is a language.

My skill level? Intermediate, if you’re asking.  Or looking at my resume.  I can generally mimic the ‘sound’ of consistency.  Give me a text to translate and I’ll get the gist of what’s being said.  I might manage to fool you.  You might even tell your friends that I’m fluent.

But then I’ll slip up.  I’ll miss a detail or make an error in judgement so illogical that you will be utterly astounded.  These moments baffle my coworkers and bosses. How didn’t she see that?  I thought her attention to detail was spectacular!  I bragged to other people about it.

The problem: I hate the details.  Consistency bores me.  I find my imagination more intriguing.  Floating through more comfortable.  Medication and the discovery that everything takes so much longer to fix than to mess up trained me to catch those moments.  I can feel errors while they’re happening.  It’s an odd tingle that runs through my body–the knowledge that my mind has wandered, the realization that my fingers are unconsciously betraying me.

I pick up odd passions. 

For a week, I’ll learn basic Swedish.  Then I want to know everything about Norse mythology.  I must read every fanfiction in that particular fandom that I am now obsessed with.  I start in the middle of a dozen short stories.  I plan the general theme of a grand and sweeping novel about the life, death, and rebirth of a god.  I watch Castle for weeks before suddenly losing interest (I grow immediately bored when the images flicker across the screen).  I promise myself I’ll work out.  That I’ll write every day but I’m switching to something new, something that feels more satisfying because who wants to live the same life every single day when each moment is already gone and I’m wasting my life (really just a minuscule spasm in the scheme of time) in a job that bores me but I never know what I want anyway. So I should be grateful, right?

Even the painful awareness that these feelings are universal (ennuis is hardly unique) and useless can’t be enough.  There’s no impetus.  No push.  Because jumping means choosing.  Choosing means committing.  And committing means consistency.  

I read an article once that spoke to needing a lifegasm more than an orgasm.  Personally, I would like both.

Currently, I’m achieving neither.