Some people say that life is meaningless without beauty. I try to think of creating beauty in words, in art, and I find myself uninspired to do so. I have lost interest. These days I can only do small functional things, like writing about my cats. I am not inspired to beauty, and pleasure derived from it is elusive to me.
In my afternoons there are gaps of time which are deafeningly silent; I fill these by watching TV on my computer. Sometimes I clean the house, but like yesterday, today hasn't been a cleaning day for me. I am supposed to be spontaneous about the things I do, the things I feel, so that I can enjoy life. Spontaneous is easy, enjoyment is a challenge. I am supposed to take things easy. Right.
Filling my life with beauty and enjoyable, small things: right now, I think I would like a red-bean potong ice-cream. Perhaps that.
And then? Nothing. I will just eat the ice cream and allow myself to feel whatever little I am able to feel.
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