I aim to crash. I aim to burn.
Whose idea was it to live as long as you can, even if that means trudging through meaningless days of a job you hate, or even one you like that’s not ever going to make you happy?
The other side answers, “Who said being happy was an option?”
And this, this little harmless question, makes you wonder if happiness is really something that exists.
Maybe it doesn’t. So I race toward those sparkling, disappearing moments where happiness doesn’t even matter.
I’ve been waiting for this bus in the rain for what feels like hours, getting more and more soaked by the second. I’m sure the bus will come any minute – so I just keep standing there.
Mug in hand, she settled on the floor, crossing her legs. “What?” She shrugged. “It’s ground coffee.”
I wrote five pages at one point last week, which was great.
That’s basically all I’ve written for at least two months. Probably much longer. Like six months.
I don’t really know why, other than the lack of a good workspace. And time. I only ever get writing done if I have a big chunk of time open in my schedule. Would you like to know how often that happens? Well, I’ll let you know if it ever does.
I think this puts me in the category of one of at least thousands of people with talent who will never get anywhere because I never do the necessary work. That just SUCKS. Someone tell me to write.
I keep thinking, once I’m really settled in to my new job, when I get my room organized… and of course, they’re all just reasons to procrastinate.
How do you get yourself to write, other than just sitting down and doing it? (Do NOT say set aside a time to write every day. My schedule really doesn’t allow that.) I really would like a suggestion. I need to get back into practice because I think I’m starting to lose my ability to write well.
As far as we could tell, he had all of his fingers.