Can't do it. I can't. I can't write. There's nothing to write. This ain't a blog anymore, this is a journal, this is a personal complaint box, nonstop therapizing.
The hopes of novel-writing have been long dashed, the minimum expectations have been abandoned, at this point it's just the inertia of having written nonstop for two years that's pushing me onward.
Is this bad, or is this good?
Should I be proud that despite the godfuckingdammit pandemic and travels and disruptions in our lives I'm still going at it, every day, non stop, at worst skipping only a few days, always averaging four posts a day in the end no matter what?
Or that this is a terrible piece I've produced, my writing is going to the shitter, it's quite likely I'd be a better writer if I was not doing this anymore.
Where do I look, what to I do? There's no spark, there's no inspiration, there's no motivation. It's just fog, some sort of thick dark gray soupy smog that hangs low in my psyche, blocking me from doing anything to improve myself. It won't let me write, it won't let me workout, it won't let me go on walks, or talk to people. This is hopelessness, that we're trapped in the waiting room to hell, and there's nothing left to do but run the clock out.
We are however not the sort of people not to run the clock out, are we?
Says ted lasso, in that comedy which I haven't watched but am well-acquainted with the trailers of. Good show, should watch when I have the access to it.
This sort of nonsense won't get me out of the hole every day, and I'll keep on procrastinating, every day, until it's so insurmountable I'll just give up. What am I gaining writing this, I'll ask, the answer will be disappointing and it'll end, just like that. There's going to be no farewells, no sad departures. It'll be a whimper, not a bang yadda yadda.
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