I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t have the patience or discipline to get things done. I don’t read anymore. I don’t paint anymore. I don’t do much of anything anymore. I wonder when I stopped. I want to get back into reading, but all the stories are all the same. I want to paint again, but the materials are so pricey. When did I become this cynical realist? Where is my optimistic, hopeless romantic, imaginative self? I used to dream of writing books. I used to think of elaborate plots of adventure, romance, and fantasies.
Where have I gone?