You would rather paint today, but there are things you know you should be doing.
You should be writing and working on your project, whispers your conscience. But the laptop closed with the last task. If you were really a writer, you would.
Admonishment doesn’t fire up the keyboard. Instead it makes paintbrushes heavy with guilt, and now the screen and canvas are blank. But you tell yourself you should be a writer (that’s what you’re better at) and not an artist, and end up doing nothing.
And — as Oscar Wilde warned becomes of people who exhaust their lives chasing identity instead of living in the moment – you become static, nothing.
You feel nothing until even doing the wrong thing is better than being nothing at all. And, even though you should be this thing and not that, you pick up that piece of paper, feed it into the ancient typewriter, and, for the moment, focus on doing rather than being.
Your cat, of course, is completely happy being a cat.