Loss of Mojo, Fading Dreams

I feel enervated most of the time now. I'm convinced that my desk job is out to fatten me up for the kill; I'm the fattest I've ever been. I sit at least 10 hours a day. My mind is equally sluggish these days. I haven't been writing at all for the last several months and I've barely been reading, instead finding it easier to watch Two and a Half Men and endless Family Guy reruns nightly. My one concession to my intellectual side is watching Jeopardy regularly. It's pretty obvious to me that I'm in a funk.The man's got me down; I ain't got my mojo no more. If I ever had it to begin with... In my teen's I was somewhat depressed (par for the course) but as a young man I have generally been, if not happy, than hopeful about my possibilities. This is no longer the case, and I fear that I prematurely aging, hanging on the precipice of 30 and all my creative powers and mental acuity rapidly waning. Partially, I blame my current preoccupation with financial obligations for my declining condition. Money is an prevailing drain on my attention and I am devoting more time to it than ever before. It is obvious to me that the capitalist system is not freedom promoting as it is made out to be, what with the obvious connection between poverty and bondage.

I have a need to be more than a schmo that is being frustrated daily.The irony is, of course, that frustration is the sine qua non of schmo-hood, and thus I exacerbate my condition by wanting it to be other than it is as opposed to the worker who accepts his lot and goes about his duties with an air of fulfillment. Its almost quixotic to want more. I should be satisfied, I tell myself, with what I have- a beautiful child, the love of a woman- what more could a man want? I eat, have a roof, all the basics covered, but it is not enough. I have heard it said (just where escapes me) that desire exists only to further itself. Once sated, we do not stay so for long: it is one of the few universally recognized characteristics of human nature. What most concerns me about my current state is that my dissatisfaction fulfills no purpose. It is an impotent wanting, not an impetus to act; a complacence masquerading as mild depression and objectless yearning, rounded off with daydreams of a more vivid existence. It is resentment of the path my life has taken, and my lack of control over it, without even having a realizable alternative in mind.

Where did all my verve go? Did I ever really have it? I've always felt myself to be in process, percolating in a chrysalis, about to spring on the world and really fuck some shit up, rattle some cages, announce myself and finally arrive in all of my glory. This view of myself now seems hopelessly naive, and more than a bit grandiose. When we lose the dreams of our childhoods, who are we? Where are we going? The maturation process can be linked to a steady reining in of our outlandish childish aspirations. I want to be a world-changing artist-philosopher-revolutionary-musician. I want to write a book that is read by more than 3 people, maybe be a philosophy professor. Ok, fine, I'll settle for getting a job that can keep me out of debt and not make me entirely miserable. So it goes, and with each compromise something dies.