I straight up didn’t write anything the past two days. I was tired, and reasoned that I was better off going to bed and catching up with writing the next day.
You know. When I set out to do this project, I didn’t imagine it going like this. I imagined dedicating time each day to sit down with my laptop and write 1500 word articles, think pieces, and stories. Maybe journal entries here and there as needed, but mostly things that could be published.
Yet here I am, nearly 100 days into it, clumsily spilling out what meaningless words I can manage with my thumbs on a cracked phone screen. I’m laying in bed, chin tilted grotesquely forward to see the screen glow in the darkness.
The vast majority of my posts are thinly veiled complaints about this project. I started it with the intention of sharing with the world, but, to be honest, I don’t want anyone to read most of these. A sentiment echoed in many posts, I’m sure.
I’m not doing this for love, or for healing, or anything profound at this point in time. I’m doing it to get myself into the habit of writing every day.
Well, it’s not a very healthy habit at the moment. And the writing sure isn’t the quality I would hope to be churning out.
It’s an apt metaphor for the rest of my life. This project lacks direction, ambition, and discipline. Thus, it’s become a meandering mess wherein I mainly just talk around in circles and sigh dramatically.
