I think it almost every single night: I’m just going to write that I have nothing, post, and then I’m going to go to bed. And every single night, once I start typing, words come out. I don’t know where they come from, and I don’t know when they will dry up. I imagine someday they will.
I’m struggling with Facebook again. I post the link there for every post I create. But I’m in the process of pulling back from social media again. I wonder whether there is a more automatic way of linking to where people can find the blog if they want it, without me having to log in to Facebook every day. The only options I can think of to circumvent one platform involve increased activity on other platforms, and that just sounds worse.
I got to the end of my day, thought about all I had done, and decided I wanted to keep most of it for myself for now. I thought about whether I had anecdotes from my past, or greater life lessons, and I came up empty. I knew I hadn’t taken photos yet, and I looked to my right, and there was a face looking accusingly at me. I am not allowed to have a glass of water in this house, without a little black face having first dibs. Athena was sitting next to my water glass from earlier, mad at me that I had consumed enough that it was too far down in the glass for her to reach. I know the rules, and I failed to follow them. There will probably be consequences. In that moment, I knew that I had a promise to myself to maintain. I snapped a picture (carefully, slowly, with my barely functioning phone) and set about finding my nightly quota of words.
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