Or, at best, that creativity punches me at inopportune times.
That I have yet to purchase a small journal to write in, that I have yet to remember I did buy one last year.
... where did that disappear to?
The disgust is that I have not committed myself to a thing in life that I love, and that I reap from.
And it is that I have handicapped myself with nobody's help and at nobody's request.
I ask myself again and again and again. Why do I only respond to extrinsic stimuli?
Certainly, this tells people that I cannot propel myself inwardly out.
It is all of this thought.
It is that I have no business to examine myself so much when I really need to just do it.
I just need to write.
But the disgust is that I have nothing to say.
