How come it's so hard to write about what you care most about, think most about? Shouldn't there be words and phrases abounding, waiting to be poured forth onto empty pages and digital spheres and into, even, some ears?
It wouldn't be so important, only, I want to do what I love. I want to effuse about media tout le temps, only, it sometimes seems as impossible as the French language.
But maybe I should just relax, enjoy my reading and note taking. Revisit the millionth draft of a paper and worry about what to do with it later.
Le mono is back forcing me to accept that during the last two months of trying to recuperate I should have maybe done more than take two days off. Especially since I spend at least two hours a day walking. I bit the bullet yesterday and talked to my boss about cutting back on my hours until I feel fully better.
I'm just so tired.
And I don't want to hear any sympathy, I'll only brush it off, as you know if we've spoken about this. I'm just going to buy a No Doubt album, I wonder why that hasn't occurred to me before.
How is it we have expectations for ourselves of what we should be able to accomplish, expectations that seem perfectly reasonable––because there are the unreasonable expectations, but those are seem to be easier to face up to. For instance, tonight I deleted two unread dictionary.com word of the day emails acknowledging that it will be OK that I don't know every word in the english language. Oh blah, blah, blah, I'm tired and bored of this. I'm going to read from a science blog so I can go to bed happy.
It felt really good to delete those emails.
11 October 2012
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Two things: Writing about things that you care about IS really hard.
ReplyDeleteI sympathize, and you can't stop me.
Also, did I mention that your slippers are the best ever? They are.
That might count as three things.