I have an obsession with opening lines. A love for lists of supplies needed on the upcoming journey. Words of encouragement set to a score that leaves chills rushing across my spine. I yearn for a eternal beginning.
I have remarked to whoever has chosen to read my thoughts and prose previously about setting a standard for myself and to write daily, no matter the subject material or even strength of language. Yet I am coaxed my mediocre excuses to forego what I know to be a passion of my life in order to pacify my habitual need for distraction. Now it is possible for you to see this pattern of “turning a new leaf” that is as naturally forgotten as the seasons cycle through their colors until the trees are green once again.
I have yet to fulfill my promise to myself.
Though I may have developed my writing and further sought to discover new world spawned by my imagination, I have yet to breathe life into my inspirations.
I can no longer finish books.
By this I mean I struggle now to read, to quite my mind long enough to concede to the words that I am trying to follow. Now I approach them cautiously, ready to turn away at a moments hesitation or strain.
Even now as I write this, the clear message I was inspired by is fading. I worry that what I am experiencing is a loss of creation. A slowly waning effect on my mind, where I can no longer grasp firmly onto what I want express.
I am addicted to procrastination. To a sensation of a eternal beginning, where I can rationalize a logic of insanity.
Now, I am trying to break the habit. Make a list of supplies. Start a new journey. I’ll let you know how it ends.
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