Mental

It's sort of weird, time. I mean, I was at a loss to actually 'find time' to write while navigating the daily schedule of work; after a long day spent at the computer, it seemed that it was a bit much to ask from myself; that time away from that special place where the mind could sit in it's creative space and just write also seemed deserved. I don't know how it so happened that my passion became a chore. But it happened.

Perhaps it was the ambiguous presence of expectation rising up stealthily like fog. Getting into a habit where others somewhat depend on you sometimes creates its own rut of reluctance, in a way. Don't get me wrong: the readership in this place has been nothing but effusive, loving, supportive and amazing. So don't think that it's you. It's me.

But (oh yeah, there had to be a but), while it's me, it's what's created in my own mind with respect to you and me also: this feeling of having to do something not on my own impulses but also to entertain. And well, we all know that's just wrong. For the writer, and just generally speaking. I ought to just write how I feel and when I feel like it, and more importantly perhaps, how I feel..not just internally with regard to emotion, but how I feel whatever I want to write ought to be said.

But then again, me being me, I'm weird. So I have this flux of weird thoughts that just come out of nowhere, and do battle with one another, all the while happening below my nose.

Yeah, it sounds confusing. Hell, I'm confused myself. 

Err I had intended to explain this clearly further, but I think my lazier alter-ego is winning the current battle. Let me go check...¬_¬