A weird day of wasted time of misspent hours. A not-insubstantial amount spent trying to work out why some music was losing all of its information whenever trying to fix it up, and now I’m here, sitting, and looking at some clouds drifting on over and I realise that those look like clouds of rain and it’s not meant to rain today, and that’s not good as the washing still needs a little bit of time to dry. Just a little bit longer, of course.

Serves me right for hanging things up late, really.

So it’s a wasted day, though there was some walking. There was some exercise. I consider that a productive use of time, but I need to do more with what I have and right now I’m doing less. Could be worse, but could be better.

I need to stop doing this getting into gear in the evening, but maybe the time to drop everything is sooner rather than later. Maybe I haven’t thought enough about things and it’s time to move on now, because all I’m doing is perpetuating a burnout that has been my fine friend for years at this point.

What am I writing? Why am I writing this in particular? It does not offer anything and I’m not offering much in the way of form and function for words to travel across space and time. I am saying words that are wasted in this collection and order, and I’m sitting here and readily spewing them more. They go into a void.

A low rumble of thunder and now I’m getting really concerned. I don’t want to stop writing but I need to address the washing outside. I need to keep an eye on the weather and I need to keep an eye on the clothes. I need to keep an eye on a number of things, it seems, and those things are just increasing in amount… or they’re not, but I need to pretend they are so as to get across some sort of dramatic tension that I cannot exactly resolve… though I can, but I don’t want to.

In a way I wish I could restart this weekend. Get over to other things, get everything I needed to get done done and spend time thinking about what could have been had we treated Indigenous Australians better, though I think about that here and there anyway, though perhaps not enough. And I don’t want to move away from that, but one’s personal problems seem overwhelming when they’re so small, and that there is an issue because they shouldn’t. One should not be consumed by them, and one should allow themselves the opportunity to think and wonder, and try to bridge gaps and help people where they need it and if they want it. I think we don’t think enough about others.

But now I need to worry about the rain, and that worry really is so insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 07:58:81

One of those days and one of those bits of writing where not much is said and not much happens. Touch on something important, but don’t explore it enough.

Written at home.