To write
I want to blog, but what do I have to say that hasn’t been said before? With better form, better research, better clarity. And who am I to shout into the void? To expect anyone will read, listen, care?
I want to journal, but everyday I wake up already feeling behind. Behind on work, exercise, house work, engaging with my family. A million things pull at my attention, to journal, to pause and consider, to document my hopes and fears and pains and and successes feels so vain. So navel gazing. So bike-shed-painting. Just do what needs to be done.
I want to write a letter. So many letters. But I don’t know where to start, or where to end. I don’t want to overstep, be too pushy, to nosy, to self absorbed. I don’t want my hopes and desires to be misconstrued as conditions of my love.
I want to write a story. Of love. Adventure. Loss and discovery. But this will have to come later. After I’ve fixed that and paid this helped them.
I want to write a poem. But I don’t know what that is.