well, it's here.

yes, all that time i spent mentioning "i'm going to take a couple of months off to write" has finally come back to bite me in the ass. it's here. my time. to write. i said i was going to take a couple of days to relish the luxuries that come with unemployment, and it's been a week. i find myself googling things like "perfectionism" and "fear of writing". faithfully going to some "research" websites i have bookmarked. reading them. and... nothing.
it's not like i don't have ideas. i have lots of ideas. lots of projects planned. some with deadlines. deadlines in the far-flung future, but real deadlines, nonetheless.
i was thinking to myself last night, as i was trying to sleep, "why can't i just commit to this? do i really want to commit to this (and by this i mean an artistic career)? the answer is yes. so i just have to commit myself to doing this or go find something else to do.
i watched "the weatherman" last night, and there was this monologue about how you imagine what you're going to be like when you grow up, all these accomplishments, all these qualities you think you're going to have. and gradually, these things, these possibilities get narrowed down. all these potential lives you have imagined for yourself get narrowed down to what you are.
i spend far too much time thinking about past possibliities that won't be realized. and far too much time thinking about the future without doing anything about it now. in short, i would be a bad buddhist.
yesterday i found myself looking for another stupid secretarial job, more out of boredom than anything else. and i had to make a conscious decision to stop myself. to try this. to try now, instead of buying time for myself while decomposing behind some random desk.
it should start with a word. this will all start with a few words. and it won't matter if i suck, because no one will ever have to read it.
i will keep telling myself that. and i will stay away, far away from my resume.