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It’s not that I’m lazy… I just don’t care

I’ve learned in all my years of working (and I’m over 10 deep) nothing is going to #work, unless I care. But that is a more serious problem than I thought. To care, is an entirety it itself.

This weekend I’ve gone home to Long Island, to my parent’s house. I see how they tend to things, the house, the garden, the pond with the Koi swimming happily in the well-taken-care-of habitat. Do they swim because they have to? Is it just what they were born to do? And they’re lucky enough to be contained and just not know any better?

In a lot of ways, ignorance is Bliss. Because If I were a machine, a working thing who sits in her cubicle and just “produces” well than I’d be a whole lot more productive, wouldn’t I?

But I’m not trying to be lazy. Or unproductive. Because to be a monotonous sloth wouldn’t make me happy either. I want to care. But I just don’t know what that is yet.

I was, without a doubt born, without the  caring gene. Perhaps I ate too much of one thing that changed my brainwaves, made me unproductive, or perhaps I drank too much, to take the productive brain cells away.

Some would call it complaining, lazy, lost, or a clinical case of depression. But I call it questioning. Why should I have to determine a “path” when it doesn’t come to some until late in a lifetime? and some none at all. Why should I feel guilt in feeling so?

I should put this passage, on my next resume…

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