March 28, 2001

As Pheobe would so eloquently say, “I’m feeling floopy.”

I’m currently sitting here in the dark, playing a mellow cd and debating if I am content or not. I had resigned myself to putting my dream of being a writer and artists second to my “real work” and every day life. For now, I had decided, the two would be separate. One day, when the plan plays out, my writing will be my full time job. And that plan was supposed to be ok.

But it’s not.

Every morning when that alarm goes off I have to hit it – not once, not twice, but three times at least. Not yet, don’t make me get out of bed to get ready to go there I say in my state of half asleep half awake.

I have chosen to keep going to my job because it pays me well and we have major plans that require my full time works wage. However in having this job, all my energy is spent on that and it sucks out my passion and creativity. I hate it, I am loathing it, I’m scrunching my nose as much as I can, yet I think who am I to complain? This is my choice.

And if I complain, I feel like it’s admitting to failure in some small way. I should be able to do it all, right? There are people who work harder and longer than I do. I, in fact, probably have it pretty easy. And knowing makes me feel all the worse for even thinking about complaining.

There’s so much I want to do. So much ambition I have going on in my head. It’s putting it to practice that’s hard. I feel like I’m trying, I want to be trying. But lately, I question myself – am I really? If I was trying wouldn’t it all be perfect?

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