existential consternation

I finished the doily, finally. Dishwater beige thrift store crochet yarn, destined for the underside of a potted plant.

Yep.

Being productive wards off the dark stuff. Also, knitting keeps my hands out of the popcorn bowl on family movie night. But I'm looking at this doily and wondering about the output potential of my hands - mostly because I was watching the Hurt Locker while binding off, but still. When I'm surrounded by people doing their own activities, I knit. When I am on lunch break at work, I write my ongoing tumblr saga. When I've got the house to myself, I paint small pictures or draw librarian comics. And each of these things fits into the slots of time available to me in the environments in which they occur, and each of them is something I enjoy doing, but altogether I feel spread thin; unfocused, purposeless, unable to complete any one thing of any great import. And I know this is the dark stuff whispering, but I can't see that it is wrong in this matter.

Like anybody else, I want to be very good at something, and devote myself to it, and make something out of it that will live longer than me.

It's probably not doilies. But I'll be happy to keep making them in the small minutes if I'm working toward something... more.