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Was that a typo? Well, quite the opposite...
07:23 hrs
My day started a little earlier than usual. Let’s go! I’ll most certainly nail it this time. After all, I’ve kept a note of what to do and what not to do from the previous week, and month, and a few months before it. I don’t really know what happened to the last year’s note.
The day started well. I got a head start. Did I tell you that I woke up earlier than usual? Well there was something I did in between which I don’t clearly remember anymore, that led me to getting ready only by my usual time. All that I remember is a slurry of notifications, texts, emails and deadlines the moment I rubbed my eyes and peeked at my phone as I was taking the morning dump.
Okay, I’m ready to own this day. I’m ready to cross off the first three high-priority items from my to-do list. But for some reason I don’t feel like it. I feel hollow. I already feel tired. I haven’t even started!
I panic. I remember my biology lessons from school. Adrenaline leads to three kinds of responses – fight, flight, freeze.
I’m frozen – by exhaustion, indecision. By the exhaustion of not being able to take any firm decisions. The only “quick fix” I see to this is to get validation for how I feel through relatable memes on Instagram or “yes, you’re absolutely right”-type messages by ChatGPT.
I look back up at the clock. I’m sure I’ve seen it more times, but still this time feels like my second since I woke up. It’s 2:30 pm already! What am I even doing? There’s so much cringe content on my feed today, I hate it. Someone’s marriage, someone’s trip – none of whom I’ve talked to in the last 5 years. Why am I still watching it? Sure this day has gone to waste. There’s nothing I could do about it now. What’s worst? It’s 2:32 pm already. Which only means one thing – it’s ‘chill time’ as per my calendar. The day’s more than half-spoilt, what’s even the point of recovering what remains?
My afternoon doomscrolling session leaves me angry – about the state of the world and my own. I can only feel my blood boiling at the recent story she posted with her new BF (who’ll tell me she was single for sometime?! wdym to say that I never had a chance?) . But I have no energy to fight back, to do anything about it. Not my fortune, not my cookie. Fortune cookies are fake anyway.
Only now do I think that minimizing losses was probably a better idea than YOLO-ing the day. I’m losing my mind not as pixie dust, but in big crumbs. Crumbs... she didn’t leave no crumbs behind. She’s another she BTW. Who cares? There are bigger things to do. I’m not even doing anything about them, though.
If I can’t fix the day, let me do something that doesn’t make me feel too bad about it. Ek kaam karta hoon, so jaata hoon. The sunset signalling the end of the day will feel kinda depressing, let’s avoid it altogether. Modern problems require modern solutions.
Right before sleeping I was angry, which soon turned into grave disappointment when I realized I was already through 1352 weeks of my life, and if I live up to 80 (which could be way off), I have some 2823 weeks more, all thanks to this widget that I found online. Someone on X also mentioned that 24 is basically half of your life done, as your perception of time keeps accelerating as you grow older. This put me in a state of dismissive panic, I dusted it off my shoulders and submitted myself to my soft bed.
I woke up to the cacophony of dogs in the park and their multifarious tongues... wait what!? Where have I heard that? Oh yes, that was the video that I was watching before I felt asleep. I feel fresh after waking up though, let me save the little that the day has for me.
My brain felt much slower, in a good way. I was able to notice my stream of consciousness. Maybe some rest is what I needed. Maybe bingeing on that new season of The Boys with the boys over Discord on sips of beer wasn’t a good idea after all. Maybe I’m just too fragile and not cut for what’s “normal”.
I prop up on my bed and pick up an old diary collecting dust on my shelf. I didn’t notice it for a very long time. I crack it open to see some of my old poems that won me competitions. There were some better ones that didn’t meet anyone but me, I felt too awkward sharing them out in the public. Bowing to the recent 2016 trend, I looked at a poem and thought back to myself:
Will the kid in me be proud of what he’s become after 10 years?
It doesn’t feel like that in the moment, but I’ve sure done some objectively good things. Getting through one of the best engineering colleges of the country, challenging my introversion and making true friends, getting into a job people usually dream of, secretly plotting to get out of it to pursue even bigger dreams. To the outside world, I seem like a “sorted” guy. Maybe the others who look as sorted to me are just better hiding the whirlpool that’s their mind?
I opened my journal and started writing...
…
After all, I *know* what's exactly been up with my mind. The surprise-evoking neurotransmitters (dopamine/noradrenaline) numb my brain and my energy is constantly squeezed out of my body like ketchup from an empty plastic bottle. Submitting myself to the little multicoloured LEDs covered by a pane of glass, especially late in the night puts in a state of wakefulness. I've (unknowingly) engineered my surroundings to remain wakeful and confused, such that I remain dazed and confused when I'm actually needed by the world.
I make up for my lack of socialization by being active in Reddit communities and Instagram accounts of unknown faces and intents. The neurotransmitters responsible for the feeling of belongingness (oxytocin) hold onto their chances of going all out at that one person who disagreed with my *kind* in the comment section of that reel. Connection without connection.
What is it if it's not a self-inflicting wound - something that gets widened before its healed? How can I complain about the noise when I simply expect to hear some music by just turning up the volume? The worst part is, however, that the mind is bad at reading itself. For it to be able to do that, it needs to turn off any external stimulation.
For we don’t rise up to the levels of our expectations, we fall back to the levels of our systems (Adam Grant). The problem is that our expectations from ourselves are inflated while our systems are breaking apart - all thanks to this little pandora box of distraction. Could we not do something about it?
…
All that and a lot more thoughts (about the future of politics in this country and the ‘crumbs’ ofc), and it’s 2:30 am already. Hey, at least I feel ready for what lies ahead of me for the day, even if there’s no time left. I submit to doomscrolling and responding to the texts of my friends as we relate to the sad-boi hour reels and there’s yet another day, just like this one, waiting for me on the other side.
My younger self would be so proud of me, one day for sure...
That was my most ADHD-pilled post on this Substack (till date) and was quite fun to write!
Thanks for making it all the way to the end. This essay was written as part of a collaborative exercise with fellow writers in the Delhi NCR Substack group.
Here are some others (which are much more coherent) you should definitely check out!