/lit/ - Literature

I lay here in my bed, wasting time before I go to sleep. It's 8am, I've popped two five milligram tabs of melatonin to help me drift off.
I'm in a weird sense of Zen. I could lay here all day and night and not waste a lick of my time. I have nothing to do, and no one to report to.
It used to be the opposite. Constantly kissing up to some higher up in an attempt to not fail but when I did fail life got so much easier. I didn't have time to enjoy life, any book I found had to be read in inconsistent and frankly worthless manners and any new game I bought had to be held off for the weekend, only to have the time be taken by some seemingly random event.
Now I have all the time in the world. My backlog of media begging to be consumed, unfinished projects seeping out of storage to get me to notice them, yet, there's nothing I'd rather do than lay here and be almost alone with my thoughts. My cat and my phone serving as companions before I teleport nine or ten hours into the future to do the same thing over and over again.
I'm not sure if this newfound calm is due to some chemical imbalance or because it is genuine. I truly feel fine and find that not everything is so bad in the world, or I'm just feeling as if life is a homogenized waste of hours in days in months in weeks in years. Nothing being accomplished, yet nothing being demolished. Everything is just the same as it used to be and it always will be.