/lit/ - Literature

My perception of time has been rather strange recently. Things seem to end almost as soon as they begin, leaving only faint memories. It's frustrating that life seems to just be one moment after another, never stopping, always speeding up.
What's been bothering me lately is that moments seem to pass faster than I can process them, making it feel like they almost didn't happen at all. It sounds stupid and cliched to say but I really wish life had a pause button so I could stop during a good moment and just appreciate it, perhaps forever.
Trying to be "present" is helpful to an extent but can also be distracting in and of itself. Focusing on being present during a situation can ironically make you miss the entirety of said situation.
My guess would be that these strange feelings are caused by my idleness over the last few months. My search for a better understanding of myself and life started off fruitful but has since degraded into confused wandering. I have begun to over-analyze everything to the point of absurdity. I've been finding myself trying to convince myself that I don't understand the simplest of things (e.g. definitions of words, subtle humor, etc) even though I know that I do.
It's probably time I get myself a job to distract myself, as much as I don't want to. It feels like a really lazy thing to do, almost like I'm quitting on myself and my understanding of life but I think I might go crazy if I keep up like this.

>O'Brian put one hand of the dial and held out his other 397 hands in front of Winston with the thumb of one of his hands hidden.
>"How many fingers am I holding up?" O'Brian asked
>1984" replied Winston
>The needle of the dial shot up to 55, the pain was unimaginable
>"How many fingers, Winston?"
>"1984"
>The needle went up to 60
>How many fingers, Winston?"
>"1984! 1984! what else can I say? 1984!"

Stopped reading there desu, what was Orwell thinking?