Freshman year of high school I picked
up the piano. I used to spend my breaks in a little closet of a music
room, with my laptop positioned precariously on its top, and watch
piano tutorials and think to myself “One day, I will be just as
good as this guy.” The room was only a few inches longer than the
piano, barely had enough space for me to scoot the stool back. I used
to think, in those little moments of solace snatched between the
general tedium of schoolwork, that I was actively engaged in finding
myself. I played for several years, self-taught, with dwindling
enthusiasm, until eventually the little electric Yamaha in my room
became mostly relegated to the role of extended desk space, and I
stopped visiting the closet. I've kept that Yamaha with me through
several moves. Today I played it again, and I realized that I had
forgotten almost nothing since I'd last played – I could still
read, my fingers still remembered the songs I'd spent time
learning, and I still screwed up in the same places. I realized that
if I'd kept at playing all these years, with just an ounce of
discipline, I would've been as decent as that guy in the videos.
When I was six or seven, my parents
wanted me to learn the violin, but I stopped within two lessons,
convinced it was boring. I own a guitar I only vaguely know how to
play. My computer is filled with half-written stories, my desk filled
with plans I never bothered to see through. Sometimes I look back at
my brief existence and see a road of dead opportunities, of skills
never achieved, of experiences never garnered, and I just get
incredibly annoyed with myself, and I convince myself I will do
better, but then I never do.
I often find myself in the position of
feeling terribly unmotivated, and just as often it seems as if I'm
surrounded by people with similar proclivities. While the characters
I commit so much of my time to studying pursue their passions with a
zeal encroaching on obsession, I consistently don't find that quality
reflected in anyone I know personally, including myself. I generally
chalk this up to my larger theory that television is a form of
idealism, but then I remember that there are actual people – lots
of people – who find the motivation to do things far more difficult
than poke some keys for a few minutes every day. That being motivated
isn't simply idealistic, and I can't excuse laziness through the
actions of my peers.
Standing there today, going over the
sheet music I'd printed out several years ago, I thought again of how
easy it is to disappoint yourself. I remember most of the ways I used
to project myself into the future: a famous paleontologist, trekking
through the Gobi desert; a doctor; then a scientist. I used to see
myself with capital letters behind my name, actively fantasized about
how I would sign my paperwork and introduce myself. Used to think
about my life split between a busy job and a quiet apartment, which I
would fill with dulcet music and fairy lights and (eventually)
multiple lovers. Now I try not to think about the future.
I don't forgive myself for my mistakes,
but the thing about being unmotivated is that it has enabled me to
live with disappointment. To accomplish much of anything, I often
have to half trick myself, or I have to set up some sort of arbitrary
award system. Read five pages? Excellent, take a break. Wrote a
paragraph? Fantastic, watch through to ad break on Crossing
Jordan. Establish a routine?
Make sure I have to prove it by marking its completion on a calendar.
It gets to the point where I wonder why I bother to engage in
activity at all, if it's apparently so unenjoyable that I have to
accept bribes from myself just to get it done. What amazes me is that
no amount of self-hatred or screaming desire can seem to energize
myself into doing anything. Why do I lament my lack of musical and
artistic ability when I take no strides to improve them? Why can't
the part of my head that understands and appreciates the difficulty
of learning seem to establish communication with the part that
controls basic motor function and concentration?
I
suppose the answer lies in an extreme lack of discipline, established
early on when my decisions to quit things despite lack of trying
always went uncontradicted (though I refuse to be so trite as to
blame my parents for my failures). Even the act of writing this
rambling exposition is a form of procrastination, as I write this as
a way to avoid working on the very things I've mentioned. But in
defense, it does feel good to admit my weaknesses frankly and
unapologetically, so that I may see rather nakedly how ridiculous I
am. Maybe this is all just another trick – the act of admitting how
pathetic I am publicly will cause me to remedy the situation out of
shame (though one could debate how public an unread blog truly is).
Or maybe I simply wanted to write about something, and through the
myriad of possible topics, this one floated to surface. Whatever the
cause, and whatever the result, all I can say for certain is that I
almost always get a little melancholic when I watch Lindsey Stirling
or Sherlock pluck their violins – and that sucks ass.
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