I’m just so exhausted that trying to summon the mental capacity to actually write today’s post is wearing me out. I suppose me blabbering on for another 180 words or so isn’t going to kill me. However, it may as well make this post not very worth reading.
In any case, I’ve made a commitment. A commitment to do this everyday for 88 more days. Certainly, I am capable of doing it even if every so often it’s going to be me mumbling about on the interwebz.
I don’t even know what to write, really so I’m basically typing the thoughts in my head. That was the point, though, right? To not care about a prepared topic and to just write. Twelve days in and this post is probably the first post to truly capture the essence of this challenge – to remind myself that all my words are worth writing. Perhaps even worth reading, even if they are only worth reading to myself. That’s really the reason I began writing, anyway. In my undisclosed blogging page specifically for fictional prose, I actually write in the bio that my writing is only for myself. I write because it is what I like to do. Because I find magic in every movement and sound. Because the world inspires me so much that I must write these things down, to immortalize them so that even when I can’t remember anymore someone else can.
Writing is for me. I don’t write for you*.
At least not anymore.
It is writing for you that as made me the least inspiring person to myself. Not that I blame you, of course. It’s just that whether or not it was intended, it led to my guard up. So high up that I didn’t know where it ended. And then I stopped writing.
I think this experiment is about to truly start. Even if I’m wrong, it’s worth a try.