If you’ve followed my posts so far, you may have reached a conclusion in the last two weeks. That the lengthy gap between this post and my precious one might have been my prophecy of me losing interest in writing this journal coming true. Surprisingly, this isn’t the case. I’ve thought about posting quite a few times over the last two weeks. It turns out that rambling into the void of cyberspace about whatever crosses my mind is honestly nice. Truth be told, if anything ever convinces me to go see a therapist, it’ll probably be this. I’d be able to vent (like I’m doing now), but also get constructive advice on how to make things better. And one of the things I’d talk about in this hypothetical therapy session would be my thoughts and feelings about the actual reason I’ve not been posting.

I’ve been busy, at least by my standards. Between work and some personal commitments, I’ve had quite a bit going on. And I was pleased when this started to be the case. I often feel like I don’t have enough going on in my life. That I’m wasting the precious moments I have before my time on this world is up. So I decide to remedy that and to get busy with different things. To feel like I’m actually accomplishing something that, if no great and noteworthy, will at least give me something to talk about if I ever need to make small talk. But, like clockwork, that new busy schedule quickly loses its shine. Because, now that I have plenty to be getting on with, I feel tired, depressed and stressed. Maybe I just need to stick with it and let this new routine become more familiar. Or it could be that it’s just my brand that there’s no pleasing me.

Unpacking that will, no doubt, turn me into a reliable source of income for whichever therapist I end up going to.