Failing to Write

A Prosaic Life: Failing to Write

I’ve been neglecting A Prosaic Life, haven’t I? It was meant to be my touchstone, a place to anchor fleeting moments before they vanished entirely. Instead, it’s sat there, quietly gathering virtual dust. Life, ever the mischief-maker, has been hurtling along so fast that I’ve barely had time to jot down a passing thought, let alone anything profound.

I could blame my website project, and I will—though I know it’s a thin excuse. Typically, my days have been starting simply enough: tinkering with font size or maybe adjusting a margin. Fast-forward a few hours, and there I am, debating the existential merits of purple buttons at one in the morning. (Spoiler: there aren’t any.) The entire thing has been both maddening and hypnotic, a rabbit hole of infinite possibilities and equally infinite frustrations. Other days…

But here’s the snag: the whole point of this journal was to press pause. To carve out a moment to sit and wrestle with my thoughts and pin them down before they flitted away. Somehow, in trying to document life, I’ve been too busy living it—or letting it run me ragged.

Still, it’s not all lost. Like an old friend you haven’t called in ages, this space waits patiently. And so, here’s my olive branch, my promise to try again. Let’s see if we can make tomorrow stick.


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