Unconsciousness, as I call it, has come back to visit, hot on the heels of inertia. After all, it takes a hell of a lot less effort to stay inertial, sitting here in my vaulted frame of reference. I'm not altogether certain I could muster the effort to do many real things, anyway, what with the toil and struggle of staying up late for the newspaper and still getting up for 9 a.m. Latin—yet this way lies inertia and unconsciousness. "Where go? What do? Sleep," advises Kerouac.
The escape into oblivion is nice, and really, it becomes necessary when I've got so much work I'm neglecting. If I didn't escape, how could I face myself? Then again, the oblivion contributes to this whole cycle. Alas, paying attention to things takes effort, hence it's a lot more efficient to just sit here and take things as they come rather than starting real things in real life.
So much of my life right now is molded by old unconsciousness, come back to bite me hello when I'm least expecting it. Some of my friends, I think, could just be warm and unconscious and happy in their dark basements messing with the computer, playing video games, and cuddling forever. It's dangerously seductive, that life. To live like they do is to live outside of convention, as outside things no longer matter. Food, computer, darkness, warmth...what else is necessary? Well, it's fleeting, neh? The self is mutable in that sort of atmosphere—which is part of its appeal, no doubt—but then what?