“travel and rejuvenation”, or something like that. Going from one point to another, one frame of character to another.
Feeling like I haven’t in weeks, not even in Maui. I see my Road – for others, not so much writing for self. No use hoping for anything, but rather dashing and darting at the opportunity to create which is always. Why do I get into these ditches, these mood muds? Who knows… just write yourself through and out of them.
Obsidian next to me, left, next to books – Hughes, Kerouac, Hemingway, and some shitty novel my ex sister-in-law bought me. Well there’s something I can throw away, helping with declutter and space. Did start reading it at one point, but it was awful – some bullshit pop-culture attempt at music and suspense and— No, just no. Enjoy the trash, fucker.
Feel like I’m on a timeline, and I absolutely am. Have to honor it. Work all days, on this. The blog, books… subject, EVERYTHING. About character and happiness, mood and composure like my lawyer stressed. Some might be reading this and I truly don’t care…