Can’t for the life of me remember why I posted this.
Probably irony and lack of sleep.
Come to think of it I think it was to do with frustration.
Linked in with shame again and hiding.
Difficulties of engaging with life.
Problems of motivation.
The implication that you can just do what you like, live your dream.
Not knowing what that dream is.
Not feeling any passion, interest or care in living.
The shame of that.
The shame of the privilege of life and a privileged wealthy western life at that, no poverty, no war, no violent inhumanity at my door (except of the insidious kind in our politics and culture) ... and not feeling able to embrace and engage and get on. Either selfishly or selflessly.
A stony kind of embodiment of living death.
The shame of not even having dreams.