Often as I sit before the keyboard and the screen I wonder exactly what I am going to write next. Will it please me or will it suffice. More frequently than I like it only does the later. Will it extend the blossoming work I am doing on the Shanty lines? Will it be something entirely new and intriguing? Or will it be something more like this? My brain dumping a few thoughts to barely cover a debt to me of sevety-eight days ago.
I might not always be proud of the content, but I am continually happy that I don’t let myself get away with a fail.
The feeling of not writing tonight or any time is exactly like the craving I get on the penultimate day of a fast. I’ve done enough. There’s nothing I prove by going one more day when I’ve already gone this long.
Bargaining with oneself is so odd, so ironic. If you could video tape a person doing this in their heads and play it back it would be comical, sad, or both. The audience–even the auto-audience–wouldn’t fall for it. They wouldn’t understand how either half of the man could. Yet I do. Or at least I can. It’s nice to use that oddity for something constructive.
They–the Chinese ‘they’–say that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. What they don’t tell you is that the the journey is made up of first steps. It’s hard every time.
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