It doesn't feel cosmically fair that I can work all day on getting stuff done and arrive home, tired, to have my phone remind me that I haven't actually finished enough tasks today. And yet yesterday, when I effortfully tried to finish the tasks my phone reminded me of, I ended the day with an inbox full of reminders of the things I hadn't done yet. This is a Kafkaesque whack-a-mole where no amount of work, poured into the gaping maw, can sate its hunger. Someone needs to rake the yard. Someone needs to cook dinner. Someone needs to fill out insurance paperwork.
I am calming myself with breathing exercises and philosophical musings on how I might prefer alternate modes of living. My car insurance is reminding me I haven't installed their spyware on my phone yet, and that is a task that I immediately failed. I soothe myself with the tasks released on the wind like dandelion seeds. The buck does not stop with me, and I watch assigned busywork responsibility slip from my fingers.
The soft animal of my body wants only to exercise, go on dog adventures, and solve math puzzles. I am epsilon close to an optimally good life, but like Xeno I will not ever... quite... get... there.
This post's theme word is wrackful (adj), "ruinous." The completionist mindset is wrackful, woeful, and wretched.
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