[ 151 ] You’ve just happened upon a mystery. I’ve lost interest in a lot of things I thought defined me. I don’t really know who I am right now, let alone what I’m doing. Which isn’t as much as I’d like because I have the attention span of a goldfish these days.
One voice in my head tells me none of this matters, nobody cares, and I’m turning into a nihilist. Another tells me that’s bullshit and I’ll go out in a blaze of glory trying to be anything but.
“You won’t do shit. You know it.”
“I gotta do something. I want to do this.”
“Well here’s a pile of all the other shit you gotta figure out and put in order and the stuff you gotta buy and, hey, you need to finalize the parts list for the rear end rebuild and get that shit ordered too. Did you ever confirm that with Josh? Shit! Don’t miss the panhard bar run! You need to do lunch again next week. Check your schedule and text Josh right now. Wait. What about omicron?”
[ Yeah, fuck that guy. ]
[ Too bad he’s me. ]
That’s right. I’m talking to myself. These two go back and forth constantly. From the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep, my brain is playing all the angles. What’s the optimal path forward? How do I hedge against these [ often absurdly unlikely ] “risks”? And if these two can talk to me like they know me, could I imagine other, more positive, tulpas? Could they bring the better parts of my unconscious to the table in those moments? Am I gonna break my brain doing this?
TULPAMANCY & ADHD
A WINNING COMBINATION
One end of the spectrum is building castles in the sky and tilting at windmills. The other wants to drop off the grid and run away. [ But it’s so much work! ] Everything repeats over and over again like Buddha said. Maybe I’ll find inner peace if I stop fighting the wheel and go with the flow. [ Pfft. Lazy. ] I should probably try meditation first, though. Or medication? For real this time. [ Riiight. ]
Do I have ADHD or something? I still love cars and writing and all that creative shit, so why is it so hard for me to find time to do them? And when I do get the time–why does it never satisfy?
TOO MANY QUESTIONS.
NOT ENOUGH ANSWERS.
This is my mystery. I have traced it’s creepy, root-like tendrils to their sources deep below the surface. There are things you don’t talk [ or write…] about. It’s too risky. I have to do it, though. I need to move, to make things, and to meditate on my actions before and after.