some weird furry thing that's trying to make the best of a bad situation, just like anybody


I've been wanting to write more lately but I still have a mental block about it.

It used to be that prose would just come without me thinking about it. Before I had a full time job and spent most of my time talking with people online I was really practiced in daydreaming and wordsmithing, which served as my main hobbies (or compulsions that I called hobbies). But my inner world has shrunken drastically over the past couple of years. I feel like I've gone from being an acrobat in my own head, someone who exists to play with concepts and juggles ideas, wringing them into something entertaining, to being a janitor, just sweeping up the messes and tidying things up. Being an independent adult who works fulltime to support themselves just inevitably does that, I guess. Work makes you sick and is itself a kind of sickness.

I want to change that, though. Maybe writing and sharing this is an attempt to change it. Translating my feelings into something communicable even if it's self indulgent and pointless and clumsy is better than just being an eye that looks down on the world with contempt. Better than remaining an impregnable blank page.


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