five more minutes

I never write at night anymore. I just can’t ever bring myself to do it. I sit down and I put my fingers on the keys but I cant press down on any one letter. It is as if I'm afraid to. As if I’m doing something wrong. Like cheating on a lover. or taking a drug I've said id never do again.

I have my theories why—

(one being that I’ve never had a singular voice. I’ve never had a strong argument. I go all over the place, and I began to wonder just who I was and just what I was saying with all this. I have this feeling that if I’m writing with no meaning than I’m wasting my time, my life, my breathing. That I’m an exercise without purpose. I have this feeling that if what I’m passionate about has no focus, then I’m doomed. I’m a wandering vessel, meandering aimlessly.

And at one point I thought I got on a roll. I thought I had figured something out about how I wrote and what I wrote and what I wanted to write. I produced a series of stories, and parts of a story, that all a certain satisfactory quality to them. They had a tone to them, a style. So I decided that I would designate all my writing to writing like that. But then that stopped me from writing whatever I wanted. Which stopped me from writing almost altogether, especially at night.)

—but I don’t know if they’re true or not. Or maybe my theories, of which there is more than one, are all true. This still doesn’t get me writing at night again, does it?

Oh well, guess ill continue trying during the day.