Teaching my Crocodile to Work
Already early in the morning, clouds had started gathering above the hills. The air felt heavy and damp, the kind of weather that quietly sticks itself to your skin before you even notice you are sweating. It looked as if rain might arrive at any moment, although it never fully committed itself to the idea. Summer often behaves like that. Threatening effort without actual results.
I wandered around the house for a while pretending to do useful things. I moved tools from one place to another, inspected objects that did not require inspection, opened drawers for no particular reason, and occasionally stared thoughtfully at things as if deep concentration alone might somehow organize them.
Nothing helped.
The truth slowly became obvious. I did not feel like doing anything.
My legs felt heavy. My head even heavier. Some invisible force seemed to be pulling me gently but persistently toward the floor. After half an hour of this highly unproductive wandering, I finally admitted defeat and lay down on the bed.
"Fine," I told myself. "You probably just need rest."
That sounded intelligent. Reasonable. Psychologically mature.
Half an hour later I got up and immediately realized nothing had changed. If anything, I felt worse.
The fourth coffee disappeared shortly after the thirth one, both of them apparently sacrificing themselves heroically for absolutely no effect whatsoever. The fatigue remained exactly where it had been before, sitting somewhere between my shoulders and my thoughts like an uninvited relative who refuses to leave after Christmas dinner.
Meanwhile all the plans I had confidently constructed earlier that morning slowly floated away like damp cardboard boxes drifting down a flooded street.
I stood there staring at unfinished work and asked myself the obvious question: "What exactly is wrong with me?"
Mexico Versus Cleaning Shelves
The strange thing was that only a short time earlier I had spent weeks cycling through Mexico without any motivational crisis whatsoever.
Back then it was no problem waking up early in the morning, climbing onto a heavily loaded bicycle, and riding enthusiastically toward mountains full of dust, heat, steep roads, aggressive dogs, cactus spines, and occasional existential despair.
I did not need four coffees in Mexico. I barely needed one.
Now, however, safely at home with enough food, enough sleep, and every opportunity to rest properly, I suddenly felt exhausted by the idea of organizing shelves and moving boxes around.
The unfairness of this irritated me slightly.
Apparently my nervous system had no objections to climbing mountains at high altitude but became deeply offended by cleaning storage areas.
Wonderful.
After a while I realized the real problem was not physical exhaustion at all. The problem was meaning. The work itself felt completely empty. Cleaning. Sorting. Organizing. Moving things from one shelf to another. You spend hours working and in the end the result still resembles mild chaos, only now slightly more symmetrical.
No wonder my brain rebelled. Somewhere inside my head, the Crocodile had clearly made its position known.
"This work is pointless," it said. "Sit down instead. If possible, think dramatically about life. Or at least stare at the wall for a while."
Negotiating With The Crocodile
At some point I started wondering how people motivate themselves to do things they genuinely dislike. It sounded ridiculous when I thought about it.
Trying to motivate yourself to enjoy meaningless work is a bit like pouring water into a car engine and then encouraging it emotionally to reach 150 kilometers per hour. Positive thinking alone probably won't solve that problem.
Still, I knew something important.
I had done this before. Years ago, during periods when I felt depressed or exhausted, I occasionally managed to force myself back into movement. Not through discipline exactly. Something else.
The trick was never convincing myself that unpleasant work had magically become enjoyable. The trick was connecting it to something larger. Something the Crocodile actually wanted.
Unfortunately Crocodiles are not interested in abstract concepts like responsibility, order, maturity, or healthy habits. The Crocodile wants something shiny. Preferably immediately.
The Memory That Changed Everything
Then suddenly I remembered Mexico. Not the exhaustion. Not the heat. Not even the dangerous roads.
I remembered the feeling. The movement, the mountains, the strange freedom of waking up each morning somewhere unfamiliar.
And a thought quietly appeared: "You have to do this again. Not someday. Again. Perhaps in Chile next time."
The moment that idea entered my head, something shifted. Because now another problem immediately appeared. Travel requires money.
And suddenly the shelves, boxes, work, organization, and all the boring tasks surrounding me no longer belonged to meaningless cleaning. They belonged to Chile.
Interesting. Very interesting. I could almost hear the Crocodile lifting its head.
"Oh," it said. "We're not cleaning. We're migrating."
A Primitive but Effective System
At that point I began speaking internally to myself like a slightly unhinged football coach addressing an exhausted athlete.
"You want another journey. You need money."
"So get up. Organize the shelves. Prepare the equipment. Sell the things. Work."
It was not particularly elegant psychology. But surprisingly effective.
The interesting part was that motivation did not suddenly arrive as excitement or inspiration. I did not feel overflowing enthusiasm while carrying boxes around.
What disappeared instead was resistance.
The invisible weight pressing me toward the floor quietly dissolved. Every time boredom started returning, another thought interrupted it.
"You need money for travel. Continue!"
And so I did. Slowly. Without drama. Without heroic determination. Simply moving from one task to another while the Crocodile remained focused on Chile somewhere in the distance.
The Useful Lie
This continued for several days. Even when tiredness occasionally returned, the internal mechanism still worked.
"Rest for a while. Then continue!"
Because now the shelves were no longer shelves. They had transformed into fuel.
That fascinated me slightly. Human beings often imagine motivation as passion for the activity itself. But perhaps motivation is frequently just a useful illusion connecting unpleasant things to meaningful ones.
Very few people truly enjoy all the difficult parts of reaching their goals. They tolerate them because their minds remain fixed on something further away. Perhaps athletes do not love pain quite as much as they claim. Perhaps writers do not always love writing.
Perhaps travelers sometimes organize storage rooms while secretly staring at mountains inside their imagination.
Money as a Tool
The funny thing is that money itself has never interested me very much.
I never dreamed about becoming rich. Luxury does not attract me much either. Money, at least for me, behaves more like fuel than treasure. Useful. Necessary. But interesting mainly because it allows movement.
Without movement I slowly become restless. And once I remembered that, the work stopped feeling meaningless. It became connected to roads, mountains, buses, deserts, strange towns, unfamiliar conversations, and mornings somewhere far away from home.
Which is apparently enough to persuade even my stubborn internal Crocodile to cooperate.
At least for now. How long it will last, I honestly do not know.
Eventually the Crocodile will probably forget again and collapse dramatically onto the floor demanding immediate comfort and existential discussion. When that happens, I will simply have to remind him:
"Chile. Now get back to work!"
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