Why is it so hard to get started? Is it because it doesn’t mean anything? Or do I just have nothing to say today?
I promised myself I would write each day even when nothing much comes to mind to write about. Writing about writing. Here I am, mindlessly putting words on paper. Saying nothing much at all, yet saying everything.
Radical I am not. I wonder what it would be like to be truly radical. To wake up and know that certain things had to be shaken up and change implemented. To feel that there was a purpose and a goal that was so urgent that it had to be grasped right now.
Writing keeps me grounded, embedded into the earth so I feel it squishing between my toes. Which actually I hate. I always feel the need to go and wash that dirt off as soon as possible. It’s just a thing. I like the idea of dirt between my toes. It’s a satisfying thought and the reality is that I don’t like it. Not at all.
Floundering. That’s a bit where it’s at. Needing direction and specific purpose. Generalist it would appear I am not and seeking a goal had become more important of late. A little at the wrong time if you ask me, and that is the way of it.
I have written. It isn’t intellectual, it won’t win awards or draw attention or acclaim. It is from the heart and a reflection from a moment in time. This moment. Drawing from me the hope of something radical. Time to step out into the unknown.