I didn’t really live, today.
I woke up. I ate food. I went to work. And then I vegitated like a cucumber in some corner of the fridge, basically waiting to wake up and start all over again.
I like living. It’s nice.
Living is when you do the stuff that makes you who you are.
That thing that makes you forget the time. That thing that makes you feel light and free.
I did not live today. At least not yet.
I haven’t had an online diary/journal in about ten years or more. These things helped me live, because writing is one of the things that makes me who I am.
I used to spend what felt like hours in front of a keyboard and a monitor, taking the fragments of my memories and trying to put them together in words that made some kinda sense.
But I haven’t done that in a while.
I should write more. Draw.
I am a maker. It’s my nature. It is what I am.
And so it is unsurprising that I so often feel utterly empty at the end of the day.
The things that I did today are not the things that I wanted to do. Only the things I had to do. The things that I had to do at a job that doesn’t have room or reason for my skills and talents.
And so this is for me. This isn’t much, but it’s mine.
I lived today.