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Of this i know

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Of this i know


I don’t know who said it but the saying went something like “I don’t know much but I know this”, or maybe that is a nugget of some minor brilliance I can claim as my own. I know I possess the writers’ heart or at least words to constitute bits of writing swirl about in the purple haziness of my rambling brain. How much writing have I done of late to prove that is next to zilch. It is a combination of fear, lack of discipline and will. It certainly isn’t about being pressed for time. I’ve got nothing but that.

I revisited my yahoo mailbox after a long absence only to use it to print a receipt out of an email. A simple enough task but Google’s gmail makes it difficult, requiring setting up google drive and bunch of other nonsense, so seeing a way to….Anyway short story long there I was trying to coax my Yahoo password out of my skull so I could re-enter my mailbox. When I get there it is like treasure hunting because there are all manner of things that I forgot existed. My wordpress is linked to that account, so any comment made is noted as an email.  My curiosity leads me to chase down all those accounts and people, a bunch of which are bogus. Still though there is writing attached to them and I say to myself, this isn’t earth shattering stuff, why at the very least am I not doing that? Then there are posts from people I know whose writings have piled up and begun to gather dust.

I’ve established at least to myself that I need focus. I have a passing interest in a lot of subjects as my Twitter feed demonstrates, but don’t really drill down on any one of them. I’ve found myself paralyzed by this behaviour. I see it happening, I bemoan it,  and this is the result. I ruminate out aloud in this space. This if nothing else is my only consistent behaviour. Self I gotta stop meeting with self like this. It looks like I am running in a well worn circle, beating the same drum by the same rhythm. Maybe this is what my m.o. is meant to be. This is how I’ll get to the place of writing from a place of passion. Even as I write this, I am only half sure I’ll post this, because I half believe it not to be worthy of the space it will inhabit. But it’s raining and I’m bored. I’m not quite ready to head out into the deluge to go dog walking. I’m waiting for a pause. Somehow I’m not truly ready to write, but that has got to change.

Of this I know.


About d.

a practical dreamer, a wanna be artist, a dabbler in writing, photography and whatever other shiny thing catches my fancy

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