I realized myself to be a master of procrastination, a quarter-of-a-century-old, and always handing tomorrow my dreams and desires. My priorities, a huge mess worsened by my pressing vocation and my indestructible anxiety, desperately need rearrangement.
Sometimes I think it is all justified, coming home exhausted from working for 8-10 hours and afterwards embarking on the nerve-wrecking journey of spending 1-1.5 in a car during rush hour. I arrive home extremely worn out and greatly unenthused, and then it is a game of Fate, whether there is shrieking and screaming outside my window or not. Am I expected to write something in such circumstances? To pour down thoughts and characterizations, lifetimes that must be reasonable and to represent the depths of the human soul and psyche?
Then, at other times, I look at it as a dull excuse to relieve myself from the mental exhaustion that comes with setting up the mood and getting your mind to write.
I do not want to waste this chance. I do not want to let a life that I only get to live once go without achieving what I want to achieve.
Poems? I write them all the time, but stories are much more difficult to attain; however, today I wrote half a page. Half a page with which I am extremely satisfied. Half a page for which I am grateful and of which I am proud. A story I decided to call "The Way We Were".