This post was written somewhere at the end of july. Like with the previous post, my feeling has changed.

I failed. At the beginning of the year, I promised myself I’d write on this blog once a week at least. I didn’t. Not only did I not have time to, I did not want to write either. And who was there to check on me? Only myself, not even up for such a simple task.

Rain is pooring. Summer 2012. One of the worst summers, weatherwise, that I can recall in the Netherlands. Then again, when was the last time I was here in July? I usually run towards the south, where the sun is a reliable. This time I didn’t.

On the 23rd of July, I cried. I lost my booklet that night, and I realised that if this writing is so important to me, why don’t I hold on to it? It was symbolical. I felt failure was near. I felt I cannot keep writing. Yet if writing is not what I want, then what is?

I’m quickly bored when I’m alone. And I easily feel like I’m wasting my time, even when I do what I like. I need an occupation. I long for an authority to tell me what to do, while at the same time, I want to combat this authority and take over his place. I do so many things, but am dedicated to none. Hop activities. Enjoy, but run even from that enjoyment. Pleasure that for example writing can give me. It does, even now.

I may have failed, but I’m still alive. I’ll try to do it better next time again.


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