A throw-away day is always careless, it either depresses a person, or makes them feel sloth, gluttonous in their own laziness. However you handle a day as lounging about I a stupor of your own misfortune, when one could be writing a poem about life, hiking a tall mountain, even catching fish for the small children of the nearest village, one is just lackluster to even dare move an inch from bed.
My throw-away days have become like years: lost time that will never be gotten back, and though I inch myself that much closer to the inevitable end, I can rest assured that even I will never truly accomplish every goal I ever set out, realistic or otherwise. I will never finish every book that sparked my interest, as eyesight gets duller every years, breathing becomes heavier with every attempt to fight off bulge and osteoporosis, I will never finish everything I start. Yet, I feel with throw-away days, I barely start anything, but the constant hounding of failure keeps me from the highest potential, though failure itself is not so-much the greatest fear, but rather the fear of failing something worthless, while the chance to fail a task that would deem the greater lesson is no longer palpable.
Daydreams, despite the controversy of being the lazy-man's deep thought, is still far better a waste of time than having a throw-away day with little-to-no stimuli. For so long I've felt the urge to just do what comes naturally, but spreading myself thin has wearily take. It's toll on so much of my trifled attempts to be artistic. Art transpires when the right constant energies flow at one critical point in the mind and soul, creating an atmospheric storm noteworthy of the gods, and allowing for a split second of genuine immortality to geniuses worm its way onto the pallete of creativity.
Our art is a pinch of what a god can do, and aligns our cultures together in a universal liking to something beyond reality, a taste of what we can do when we tap into that magical realm between the barely conscious, and the widely-awaken mind, to jot down words spoken by many, but written soely by the artist to convey the most beautiful of symbolic nature, that we all must stop and think, criticize, and condemn, for such is art to stir the emotions of the minds, both great and weak.
Is there art in throw-away days, the times that we do nothing, and relish in nothing but our own bliss importance? Where we have an illegitimate obsession of feeling incomplete? Is it man's nature to always feel unfulfilled, so-as to create and discover even greater talents hidden within? Is there no limit to the human spirit, that a throw-away day is not only necessary, but required to inact such splendorous wonder?
They say even God rested a day, even the immortals know that to achieve greatness, even they must take a break from creating beauty. Perhaps I'm too hard on myself for having throw-away days, perhaps I'm not as lazy as I thought before writing this lament. Is it possible that rest and relaxation is okay, so-long as it is not followed with stagnant lapse of time that stem towards depression?
I may not always be productive, and productivity is truly objective, for what is seems productive to the poet, is but wasted time to the executive, and to the artists whom see the world through water-colors and pastel, a far more blasphemous waste of time is to stare at a cubicle, seeing not one ounce of beauty that isn't man-made.
So do I truly have throw-away days with raging bouts of placent nothingness? Or are those seemingly wasted hours but the recharge to my creative battery? The answer is dependent on what I do with the time after a throw-away day: do I lavish in the nothingness, or do I go and create something likened to the gods?
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