I've been trying to urge myself to write lately as I have said. I was able to put down a skeleton of a chapter a couple of days ago and it has not been followed by any more attempts since. Right now I just feel tired. Tired and worthless. I feel obsolete. Like the world had spun so fast that I was caught on one space and time and never moved from there since.
I don't know why I'm forcing myself to believe that I should be focusing on a few things. I can't do it. I can't just narrow things down, because I am made to love everything. I am made to explore every nook and cranny, every ugly and pretty, every still and chaos. I am a child of the universe (sorry, Desiderata) and I don't plan on limiting myself to a few things when I can have a little bit of everything. Fuck being great. Fuck specializing. Fuck conventions. I have never lived with that kind of mindset anyway so why start now? There is beauty in living and pride in being just. Not ambitious nor content, not exciting nor boring, not ground-breaking nor irrelevant. Just being. No adjectives, no descriptions. No fucking pressure.
I'll keep doing what I've been doing and I'm sure I'll be fine. I am here to love and create. That is all I will ever do until the day I die.
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