SADNESS CLINGS TO her soul in damp, sticky cobwebs. The abandoned homes of spiders sink into her, their remnants crushing any joy or productivity she may have wished to cull from the morning. And there’s no reason for her feelings!
Well, maybe not entirely. She shouldn’t have become distracted for, what was it twenty minutes? If she had stayed focused on the little projects – consolidating blogs, reconstructing pages and information, refining details – she would be better prepared to focus and complete the bigger (and more important) ones. Like writing. The short stories, the legend collection, the novels. And the planning and the preparation for publishing, social interaction, social media, platform building, and submissions.
She took a great sigh. The best she could do was try. Even if she stumbled and failed because it was hard to do what she wanted unless there was social stigma to motivate her to adhere to societal norms, she could at least say she tried. Even if she achieve nothing, at least she tried. Even if the stories died, voices choked with dust because she was too busy being distracted doing what she didn’t want to do, at least…
But what good would that do, letting them die, while she just ruined herself more by letting them lie in living tombs until she (maybe) wrote them? Where was the fairness in that? Where was the sense? Why hurt so many just because of her attention and motivation problems?
There had to be a way to fix it. Or find a way to reroute her behavior or find a path around it, one that she could follow. One that would work for her.
Written: 13 Sept 2015
Words: 279 wds
Inspired: life/ongoing life (this feels like an appropriate reminder today)