This is probably painfully obvious, but I can manage to fill my days with whatever I have at hand. I haven't been bored in a long time, unless I'm specifically waiting for something, like a doctor's appointment, and am unable to do the things I normally do. As a result, I can suddenly metaphorically look up and realize that six months have passed or six years. Time doesn't mean much when I'm in my own world doing my own thing.
It's been even more like that over the past few years. After the so-called "Year of Hell", life stopped. Work, such as it was, was little more than a collection of tasks I set for myself. Yeah, I distantly noted the passing of days and months and years, but only in relation to those tasks I've previously mentioned. I could keep going like this until I died - the list of movies, books, writings, ideas, thoughts, magazines, blah blah blah are growing exponentially. I suppose that in some way that growing list is something to be proud of.
But it's not.
I'm not going to pretend that I have suddenly become much more industrious. I am busy in my own way, doing my own thing. That's different though, and may be related to OCD. It certainly feels that way. Still, there have been marked improvements in the way I handle new tasks and the way I prioritize. Some of this began a few months ago. Some of it began over the last few days.
Life is too short. There is so much I want to do, so much I've missed while being in my own world. Tomorrow may not come, so it's up to today to do what I can.
But life is also painful. In some ways, I suppose it might be another way of procrastinating. I don't have to deal with those thoughts if I'm buried in mindless work. But I do dwell on those thoughts because many of the tasks I set for myself are mindless. It's a trap I've made for myself.
I don't know. I probably not making any sense right now.