No Sleep

I didn't sleep much, last night.

I keep reading and reading, and reading some more... It's frustrating.

I want to read more, and I never want to stop reading. Sleep feels like an unwelcome interlude between reading sessions; working out feels like a tiresome interlude between reading sessions; eating feels like a bothersome activity that hinders my reading sessions. Don't get me started on work... I just want to read.

Sometimes, I wonder if there's something truly wrong with me. It seems people, in general, want a purpose, they want to do something, though they may not know what exactly, they do know they want that somewhat nebulous purpose. That wholly evades me. Why would you want to do something? A purpose... That's so weird. I get passion; I have a passion for reading, I suppose, and maybe some other things, and I definitely have several interests; but a purpose? No, I can't relate to that.

Am I just irredeemably selfish? Asocial, maybe... My purpose, the thing I want to do, is read and learn. I want to read and learn. Not to teach anyone, not even really to expand the knowledge base of mankind (I actually have a chance to do that, and I dread it more each day), but just to do it.

I've heard that meaningful work is a good indicator of happiness; or rather, that the feeling of doing meaningful work is. That does make sense. Maybe I'm missing that? I find that hard to wrap my head around... I don't feel like that would help me feel "happier". The idea of working, regardless of its meaningfulness, feels so horrible. I just want to read and learn. Learn from books, hopefully.

These feelings are hard to contend with. Every time I hear people talk about this, it just... Crushes me. It makes me feel empty.

Anyway, I wore my black wool suit trousers. Very fancy. I ironed them, and my black polo.