Today is quiet thus-far. I'm writing this earlier than normal as I actually have a social engagement to go to this evening! (clapping and cheers) Some friends of Dave's, a couple, who I really dig, are throwing some kind of birthday bash. I am giddy with excitement. This sounds so desperate, but seriously, I'm lonely out here. And plus, I get to wear a dress.
I'm on day six of not smoking, and the physical withdrawals are pretty calm, no violent uprising. The new screw is the mental aspect, that swoops in after the physical. I can't even count on my fingers how many times I've envisioned myself on the back porch today, looking off in the distance, cigarette in hand. The vision is alluring and lethal. I reach for more coffee.
My body has decided I've done enough for now. Congratulating me on my accomplishments thus far. But today the visions of putting down everything are vivid. A little lazy voice in me says, "Do you realize the kind of commitment it takes to be happy? You don't have it in you..."
I finished my "page a day" goal for today, but I think that's the kicker. I can't see beyond it. The thing with the writing is that I really really care. I kind of sort of believe it might just be all that I have left. Which for some reason, registers any kind of action as purely terrifying.
Some people, I believe, are afraid of failure. And therefore never try. However, others are actually more paralyzed by the idea of success. I've decided that I can't decide which one I fear more: success or failure. I'm convinced it's a healthy dose of both.
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