I’m writing this between bursts of other things. Why am I doing this? Why am I choosing to write in this way? I don’t think I can write much of anything of substance, and does writing have to have substance? The best writing often does, but what if some of it doesn’t and we don’t know?

So I’ writing between things. I’m writing words and I’m trying to find something that says something beyond “I don’t know what to say”. Stringing words together, trying to find the gaps and cracks where I can. Trying to see if something does come forward, of course. Always am, never am.

It’s a nice day outside. Don’t want to go outside, to be honest. Don’t want to leave the bedroom. Going to have to at some point. There are things to do.

I used to write a lot because I enjoyed writing, and somewhere deep down I still do, but now I write more because I don’t know what else to do.

I suspect the Covid-19 pandemic did more damage to me than I initially thought. I know getting Covid twice certainly didn’t help. The second time especially. That was at the start of last year and I still feel a bit sluggish in my brain. Getting better, but getting better slowly, and it’s rough. It’s tiring. But I have to keep going.

As I’m writing this I’m realising I used to write so much more freely, too. In doing the challenges I’ve set up for myself, my writing hasn’t become more free, and it’s not the word limit or time constraint; it’s that I keep letting myself grow increasingly linear and less free-form.

I seem to be slowing down more and more, and speeding up and something seems to be getting lost in between. Some of that is due to the brain sluggishness; some of it is due to working on winding down this blog, and some of it is due to how my desire to write isn’t here.

The day is getting old, but it’s still young. It still has many hours, and so do I, and this is all sorts of dramatic and I’d rather not be. I’d rather go back to being silly, but I don’t want it to feel forced but it just might have to be.

I should probably go outside.