Instead of feeling overwhelmed by too many choices, I'd like to feel bored.
So why start a blog? It's one more choice, one I can settle down with for a few moments and not feel guilty. I chose it.
Today, I should have been doing specific things (a list was even made). These activities benefited other people, generally, not me. I am a chronic volunteer; it's damn near pathological. It must be the validation I receive from being needed that convinces me to volunteer in the first place, but later I experience ongoing sensations of being trapped from which there's only momentary relief.
I chose to avoid those activities and spontaneously built a sad-looking compost bin out of old bricks I had in my garage. They were old and painted yellow: one split when I chucked it out of the garage into the yard. I stacked the bricks in a Red Rider wagon and hauled them around to the other side of the house. I pushed a row of them down into the wet earth and then stacked more on top, the result is something like the ruin of a burial cairn. Sweat ran down my stomach and soaked into my shirt, and I had dark, dirty bits under my fingernails. I raked up leaves and filled the space I'd built, then rushed inside to retrieve the plastic bowl full of kitchen waste to make my first deposit.
It was weirdly satisfying. About an hour was spent on that little project, an hour that I wasn't being "productive." No one helped me, and it's unlikely I'll be validated or praised for it in any way. Why'd I do it? I'm not going to dwell on the why and wherefore, just the satisfaction. Whatcha think about that?