I suspect I'm the only one who is even vaguely aware that I still haven't posted my New Year's Resolutions. Well, for what it's worth, they were rubbish anyway, and I've already done some of the ones that were one-off things, and already broken some of the ones that were supposed to be habit-changing, and oh, as if it makes any difference. We'll all be dead in a few decades anyway.
A lack of resolution is part of the problem, but not all of the problem. The problems are many and nebulous, and most of them would just get a big resounding "but why don't you just...!" of self-righteousness from the collective mouth of the internet if I said them out loud. It's just the usual. Work. Health. House. Relationships. Expectations. Directions. Decisions and revisions. Hesitation. Repetition. Repetition.
I have forgotten how to write. Emails, blog posts, let alone anything more meaningful; everything, the whole lot, it's all just trapped in some kind of mental equivalent of Second Class mail: a big avoidant bin where things get thrown. If writing too much is verbal diarrhoea, this is some kind of impacted vowel syndrome. It's stuck in there and it's toxic and it's making me feel ill. I don't know where to start. There's too many things to say and I don't know how to say any of them, and I don't feel any of them are worth saying. I hope nobody's reading this, I hope everybody's reading it.
I don't know what I want to do. All the small things add up to less than nothing.