I really need to make this a daily habit, for many reasons. Examples: It feels good to write. Writing about my life helps me keep my head screwed on straight. I'm not bullet journaling reliably anymore, so I need a new daily habit. I'd like something to look back on, to understand who I was, so I'll know how I got to where I'll be.
That's something I do regret greatly about my teenage years. I have a lot of regrets about that time, actually, none of which have anything to do with “enjoying” my youth. The prime of my life is now. I was a miserable, desolate teen, fighting tooth and nail against my own chemistry to make it to 18. I made it! I'm 20 now! Still, I wish I had more... documentation, I suppose.
I don't blame younger Lithish for not wanting to be photographed, gods forbid RECORDED. Still, I think if I had more than memory and folklore, I'd understand who I am now a little bit better.
There are some fantastic stories about baby Lithish. I'll tell you some of them one day.
Anyway, back to the point: I want to document this time. My personal history shouldn't pass into distant myth when I'm old and grey, I don't think — I want to remember who I was, who I am now. If this is truly the prime of my life, and I really won't know until it's gone, I'd like it put into words while it's still rolling.
Besides, journaling even sporadically is already paying off for me. I'm not afraid to write anymore.
Five days later, I'm back for more. I can't keep up with anything regularly lately, even habits I was certain I wouldn't break. My bullet journal rarely graces my gaze these days. I simply have nothing worth writing down in it.
Is that the root of this grandiose dilemma? Do I have nothing worth writing? Or, perhaps, is my writing simply too niche, too amateur to be worthy of indulgence?
Writing even this does feel like an indulgence. I can't help but feel undeserving of the prose I lay upon the screen, pausing often to consider the guilt of my pleasure. Then again, if I don't deserve to write, how long until I strip every joy from myself? Not long. Not long at all.
I feel like wax. Weighty, colorful, yet insubstantial. Crumbly under pressure. Wont to melt into worthless goop at the slightest heat. Where has my self-esteem gone? What happened to the glowing graduate with all the world before them? I suppose they were lost with the muse.
I hope I find them again soon.
I'm taking a break from work to write this. My neck hurts, in spite of my best attempts at an ergonomic setup. Okay, this definitely isn't my best, but it was when I was broke. Some investments are warranted.
Time spent combating my artist's crane-hunch may be a wiser investment, but it's certainly a more difficult one. I'll go 50/50.
Breakfast today was a Luna bar, followed by a CLIF Kid Z-Bar an hour later. I end up ravenous around lunchtime, but hassle-free mornings let me start and end work earlier than I'd be able to otherwise.
It's around lunchtime now, and sure enough, I feel like I could eat a cow in spite of my recurring nausea. It'd be a bad idea, but I COULD, you know?
My coffee of the day has not quite gone cold. Kaladi Bros. Red Goat blend, French pressed with milk and sugar. Tastes like home. Less the home I knew as a kid and more the one I visit a few times a year, less the nostalgia and more the settling. Reflecting on my childhood brings little joy. These past few years, though, they're worth smiling about.
I hope my good luck doesn't run out any time soon. I wonder what to eat for lunch. I take a deep breath and go to clear the last ten minutes before I eat.
When I'm nervous, I click. I click rapidly on the same spot, as if by providing input, my computer will magically alleviate my anxiety. It generally happens in tense conversations, while I wait for a reply from a long-distance friend. Discord has dealt with more than its fair share of my haphazard, hopeless clicking.
I'm scared. I'm scared of losing my job. I'm scared of running out of money. I'm scared of letting down the people who believe in me. I'm scared of wasting my life. All of these fears and countless others are as intertwined as threads of gossamer on a spiderweb, catching and entangling my hapless brain cells like flies for dinner. All except one.
I'm scared to write.
Why the hell am I scared to write?
Honestly, it evades me. Nothing brings me more joy than storytelling, and yet the thought of, y'know, telling a damn story nearly makes my heart drop. It's not that I can't, or don't want to. I want to so badly, and I've been doing it all my life. The problem isn't even a lack of prompts or inspiration, I've found. The problem is fear.
They say there's nothing to fear except fear itself. It's a pretty phrase, but it's rarely applicable in day to day life. There are lots of unspeakable, grotesquely real horrors out in this world of ours, lots of things to be terrified of and angry about. In this case, though, it may ring true, if only because I can't narrow down the source of the fear to any particular thing. I'm just... scared. I feel as though my mind is running itself in circles, a neurotic hamster wheel, to keep me from my passion.
Well, I've done stranger, bolder things for spite than writing. Welcome to my blog.