I'm not sure why I'm here really. I mean, I spend time doing fun things, organizing and decorating the new apartment. But that could last forever. What's the big deal? Just so I can sit in it and go "ooh, that's nice."
I'm a little concerned about my creativity. My drive - my passion - for creation. There's something boiling beneath the surface. I haven't quite tapped into it yet. I feel stagnant. Stale. I don't feel bad. Just ... not driven. Everything is average. Not exciting. Not boring. Just average. Work is average. Social life is average. Writing is average. Energy is average.
I want to create. But when I imagine getting down to it, I don't know what I want to create. Music? Art? Decorating? Writing? I sit. I stare. I sleep. Okay, so today was a lazy day. That's okay. Those days are needed. It felt good to lay around. I had a small dogwalking group today. It allowed me to rest more than push.
I always come back to this place. Questioning my purpose. I don't feel fulfilled in some small way so I think I've lost sight of all purpose. That can't be entirely true. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here...right? I mean, what if my purpose is to question my purpose? Then I'd be exactly where I need to be. Which ultimately is the truth. I'm right where I need to be.
I cry out for time to rest but when I get it I panic because I think I should be doing something productive. A bit of a catch-22 there. Rock and a hard place. Grass is always greener. Whatever.
Still not sure what I'm doing here. ...just writing.