I sit and I write.
I fight with myself, with the distractions, with a million thoughts raging in my mind. The desire to sit and do nothing is strong. What a strange existence I experience.
Over the years, I thought I would have accomplished so much more. At 23, I told my grandmother I would be well off by 25. She passed away a few years after the deadline. 28 and a week closer to 29 and here I am, chasing the same tail, stumbling through the same string of thoughts I had when I was less than a quarter-century old.
Still, I sit and write.
I’ve been doing this since I was 8… or was it 10? I can’t remember. I do remember that I’ve always been in love with Dinosaurs. It was the first thing I learned how to draw, or better put, how to create. I was pretty good at it too.
Now I’m only a fragment of what I once was. I suppose this can be considered a silver lining. If I continue to run in circles, perhaps I can rediscover who I once was, perhaps this is what I’ve been searching for the whole time.