(These unsolicited writing prompts are annoying as all get-out!)

I am trying to curse less often. I try, but then I forget why I would even want to put in the effort of self-censorship. It seems to go against the grain of everything I am wanting to do these days: to just let go.

The daily journaling isn’t what it used to be. I think it served its purpose in a way. But I’ve had enough of the self-flagellation that inevitably follows. I tried briefly to keep a daily journal and a process journal and work on projects. There aren’t enough hours in the day. Not when the days are filled with a “day job”. Which is more than a “day job”, really.

It hurts to think that your life has meaning in arenas you never appreciated yourself. Never planned, or dreamt that there was where you’d make a difference. Where there’s no big love. No compensatory appreciation for your “just do you” doings. Nothing to wrap the pieces in and to hold what is left of you together. It just is. Day-to-day and mattering only in the moment.

Maybe this is what is necessary. To move past caring for the tidy, cared-for object of a self. Ego, not as desire, but as display.

Emma Thompson keeps her Oscars in the bathroom. So there is that, yes. But then again, everyone has to pee. So is her “taking the piss” a performative bit? Yep. I am as human as you, but I have Oscars in my loo. See?

It matters. It should matter.

Maybe to be truly humbled is to give up hope.

The paradox of trying not to try to get what you want. Of believing nature will bring it to you like the inevitable rush of the current in the spring. Of believing what is effort-full is inauthentic.

We are creatures of effort and desire. There is a process in the making.

3 Replies to “Processing”

  1. So true in many ways my friend. I just wish one could stretch the hours to 61 minutes. 🕊️🐈‍⬛💕

  2. The fact that I’m only just commenting on this shows why I wish there were 48 hours in each day. I am tirn between so many things, and, tbh, the daily blogging I committed to doing this year ahs taken a toll of a kind (eaten more time) although I do think it has, overall, made me more creative. But the paradox you describe is real – who am I really writing for – myself, my readers, or my desire for public and critical recognition? I’ll just leave that hanging, as it deserves to.


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