This is me trying again.

No, this isn’t some attempt at sounding hammily sentimental. I stopped to take a minute to scratch the sole of my bare foot and for that minute, I doubted myself. I doubt myself every waking minute. What can I say? I’m Little Miss Inhibition.

No, this is a terrible attempt at writing by taking advantage of the mental haze a hot day, diving into a pile of research for an essay and using the elliptical machine can provide.

I write. Wrote. Used to. I’m not sure what happened along the way, but it happened, and now I agonise over ideas flying past and not being able to muster up the motivation to pick up a pen and scribble it down as quickly as possible before the vacuum up there sucks it back into oblivion. I wish I knew how to deal with it, I really do, but as much as I’m enjoying the sounds of the keys clicking as I type and the steady stream of thoughts moving from the noggin to the fingers—you know, the whole CNS–PNS relationship—for years the whole idea of writing, among many, many other things I knew I loved and that I would always hold close to my heart, lost its colour. I’m frightened; it eats me up inside. It set off a domino effect—once I started to lose faith in it all, I started to lose faith in my ability to act. I would see everyone do what they wanted—given their individual limitations, of course; I’m not some head-in-the-clouds optimist—and here I was, a slave to my own irrationality.

Today, on the 26th of October, 21:29, with this indie compilation in the background, keys clickety-clacking their way for my aural pleasure and words formety-forming themselves for my visual, I’m endeavouring to start again.

That sounded a tad hammy.

Whatever. It’s a start.

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