i keep telling myself that i should blog everyday. even if only a sentence or two. each day holds something meaningful, i say to myself with a voice of authority and wisdom. life is passing by and i’m fortunate enough to be living it, so i should at least have a few words as a product of all the time i squander away, right? there has to be something worth writing. of all the thoughts and answerless questions that fire through my brain throughout the course of a day, of all the motions i go through in the hours between waking and sleeping, all the dreams that jolt me awake, all the emotions that stir and haunt, all the restlessness that leaves me yearning, all the pointless inner conversations that plague me, (that often contain thoughts like “there has to be something worth writing about” and “what’s the point?”), i should have something—anything. right?
but i find myself staring at a lot of blank pieces of paper, pen in hand or between teeth. and countless white screens with impatiently blinking cursors. waiting for the creation of at least one sentence that might prove my existence in this space and time in the universe.
and like a distended balloon that’s forcing a hiss out of a microscopic hole, i find myself writing this sentence more than any other: