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.