October 3, 2011
9:25 pm
Location: IA Boys Dorm Apt.; Cicero, IN
Listening to: Dead Poetic, Vices
It is scary how fast time can slip by before I realize that it is gone. Hours, days, months. Years.
It has been two months since I've done any real work on Shadows & Scars. I'm always "just about ready to work on it" again. Something always comes up. Something always will. If I wait for the ideal writing conditions, I may never finish this book.
Why is it so easy for the unimportant things in life to claw their way tot he top of my list of priorities? Not that everything I've been doing is unimportant, but enough of it was.
But this is just a snapshot.
I'm sitting here, trying to remember the last time I came to the end of a year and felt like I hadn't wasted it. The years have been slipping by and I'm always "just about ready to..."
How many years have I wasted? How could I have let them slip away? I look back and cringe at the long line of months and weeks filled with... with what?
When is the last time I've had two weeks in a row of peaceful sleep? Two weeks in a row where I haven't dreaded the quiet moments before sleep, when honesty speaks clearest? Two weeks where I've actually lived beyond my ever-hungering emptiness?
Two weeks. Yes, I think that's a good place to start.
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