Waiting, Oh waiting, waiting for Godot.

As I sit here in my room, with the ant infested keyboard on the floor, with a laptop full of loading bars, loading circles, loading their shit into the screen for an eternity, I just want to wonder.

Will my time be ever enough? Will a month of sabbatical turn out to be a waste of time? I say of course I will not let that happen. But it’s happening. I’m down by a week and here I am, still fucking panicking over my daily activities. I have been given 24 hours a day and yet it still never seems to be enough. How can I be productive in this mounting danger of nothing ever seemingly happening?

And so I turn to waiting for Godot. Because I am, currently, waiting for Godot to come. To give purpose and to fix the eternal ambiguity of the purpose of my existence, as to why I have resigned a perfectly fine job for a job at risk with lower pay, and why I have never even prepared my shit like visas and stuff if I told myself that I would go to Japan this August.

As Godot never comes to the fellow two characters wearing bowler hats, Godot shall probably never arrive to me as well. Perhaps I’m waiting for nothing. And so here I was, nothing to be done.

But there was everything to be done. I need to clean my room, to clean the house, to water the garden, to turn off the microwave and to apparently handle my fubbly status as an employee and to handle my money and here I am just hollow deep inside, like someone who wants to die but not literally die, just disappear, because all seems hopeless and there never seems to be a way out.

I don’t know how to make off my situation, but I feel a sense of desperation everyday, like a room with a broken window, I feel compelled to be hopeless in this situation. The keyboard’s on the ground because the ants are gonna fuck with it anyway. The desk is just a mess all day and I never seem to be satisfied no matter what configuration of my organization do I turn it to be.

I’d never make art as beautiful as the others outputted and I would’ve thought it was because I never had the time to do the productions. But now that I have time, I may have been mistaken; I never had the capability to do so anyway.

It has always been my struggle, to capture the fundamental specialty of vacations as the perfect time to create works of art, and yet on the flip side, it is the greatest time to waste most of the years because hey, vacation is all about having fun! So I ain’t going to be able to do art work in a vacation time. It seems to be the nature of work and leisure.

I want to cry everyday as a struggle to paint stuff completely and how dirty it all is. I know how to draw stuff and yet I could not really show anything substantial or ready. I’m an unfinished brat who gets beaten by a mile by not finishing anything.

In a way, it’s all my fault, for throwing away the things I endear the most. It’s my fault for not pursuing my passions as passionately as I thought I should be. I’m just a butterfly fluttering to every flower without commitment or investment and thus never having the chance to get reincarnated through samsara.

Now I hope my thoughts never goes the way how Pozzo’s Lucky would have his thoughts; incoherent rambling about theology and public works, I hope my sincere thoughts could lead to somewhere else more productive, more fulfilling and self-actualizing. But perhaps it never will, if that’s the will of the human nature. And that always scares me.

To think and feel and lead an examined life, but never being examined back. That is a cruel fate for me, as a person who desires to be immortal through writing. Perhaps there’s a J. D. Salinger moment waiting to happen and a reinterpretation of my drawings waiting to unfold, but right now, I’d feel that if I don’t act fast, then if I would die, I would be dead, forever.

Never to look up to my future self but instead look down at him at his squalor. I could never stomach that feeling. Never a memory left, immaterial as the dust in the sand of the beaches. Or as forgotten as the dead hobo in the train car.

Perhaps I’ll be a dead hobo in a train car one day. That’s a possibility.

I would look forward to it. Or perhaps downward. But who cares.