On Writing

I’ve been struggling for decades on keeping a journal of sorts. There are weeks where I could go on a perfect streak, then there are days when I just give up, yield to life, and stop writing. Because it didn’t matter.

I gotta work this glamorous job and make some real money, not write,

I would convince myself. And it usually works. It always worked.

I’ve since deleted all those writings, all those blogs. It’s tragic, but it had to be done, it had to be destroyed. Perhaps it was more than a useless ghost. Perhaps it was shame. Perhaps it was all fabrication, too ugly to be seen under the light of fiction.

When is a good time to take care of one’s health? When is a good time to be closer to family? When is a good time to go on that dream vacation, take that bucket list sky jump, spend that last savings on a superbike? When is a good time to tell others that your time is your life and you’re done working for the family business?

The time is always now,

Says friends. Says I. Says everyone else.

The time is always now.

So if you’re into reading and writing and procrastinating, you’ve got some cleaning up to do.

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