Like a train, that is, not a boozehound. It’s not the most productive of getting by, but yanno… it’s something. I suspect I’ll start getting frustrated with it soon, ’cause I keep feeling itchy to write (whether it be fiction or some more personal back story here), but I get overwhelmed before I can even think past, ‘Hey writing, that would be cool.’ By the same token, why do I persist in blogging daily? I think one could probably argue that it’s gone past the point of a challenge and right into neurosis. And they’d probably be right, but it still enables me to say that I do write daily. It doesn’t have to be much, but it’s just that little nugget of daily achievement, of knowing I did at least one thing. Surely that’s a good thing? And it’s not like I’m doing it for anyone else, I’m doing it for myself. And yet, I feel sheepish if I can’t crank out epiphany after interesting story after arcane wisdom. *chuckles* But I know that’s the dregs of perfectionism talking — no human can be ‘on’ all the time, and especially not any introvert with a modicum of self-preservation!
Ah well, back to cultivating blessed silence in my brain. There’s been a few skirmishes of intrusive thoughts causing my anxiety to jag, but I’m still mainly holding it together.