Normally, I try to stay busy.
I like to get up early in the morning, and start my day. I feel like I’ve got lots to do. I’m not sure what I’m doing with my life, but it’s a steady process.
I’ve got a job that I work. I go there, I do tasks, and every two weeks I get a pay-check.
When I’m not there, I’m usually at home. For the past 12 years, whenever I’ve been at home, I’ve felt a pressure. A pressure to do something, or to be someone. Write a book. A movie. A blog entry. Prove to the universe that I exist outside of my everyday job which anybody could do.
Up every morning, and writing. When I was younger, I had to write every day to prove to myself that I was a writer. To develop the stamina, and skills. Now, I’ve written thing. Books. I know I’m a writer, a real writer, in any sense of the word. Though I don’t get paid for it, yet.
But now it’s December. December, 2013.
Work gets harder, and the days get shorter. Xmas shoppers are like a plague, from unhappy parents to crying children. They all want what they want, and they resent anything that gets in their way, like logic, or the truth. “We don’t sell that.” But I want it!
So, this month of the year, I try to take it a bit easier. I try to relax on my days off, and just have a good time. I work on projects when I can, but I accept that I need a lot of rest, and plenty of time to just goof off, watching cartoons and action scenes.
It feels cold outside, the cool air sneaking in through the window-glass, and wrapping itself around my legs. Like an icy scarf, or a chill snake slowly wrapping itself about me, tighter and tighter.
Maybe I’ll do something today.
Maybe I won’t.
I guess we’ll just have to see.