Discrepancies

            I wish I wrote more. That might sound common ie. the form of that statement “I wish I [insert aspiration, hobby, passion, modus operandi] more” I imagine many of my peers share this sentiment. Not being able to do what they once found (still find) joy in. That we sacrifice our time to our jobs and whatever’s left over is for sleep and food. Yet my mind feels like it’s become food, that it’s turned into mush and is being eaten by something with really dull, stubby teeth.

            It’s not that I don’t have material to write about. It seems that nearly every day there’s a story I’d like to reflect on and explore in my writing. But classes end at 6, then I go out to eat with my coworkers, and when I get back home it’s nearly 9.  And you’re thinking, “This kid is bitching about getting home at 9?” What you don’t know is that I have obligations that keep me occupied from 10 till 11, obligations I do not give up to write in lieu of, obligations by choice, because when I do write, the obligation makes it worth the while.

            Anyways. Then there’s the prepping for class, administrative work, reading, and self-reflection. Now it sounds like I’m whiny. I’m probably whining a little. But it feels like the day should have 30 hours in it. Regardless, at the end of the day, writing becomes another task to add to the insurmountable list that I don’t have the energy for. The end of the day requires a mental decompress, as far as I’m concerned, and as much as I love writing, it simply does not decompress my mind.

             I’ve been told in order to do what you want in a given day, you need to make time. Unfortunately I do not control the sands of time. I wish I did. Now I’m rambling. So I’ll just leave it at that. I don’t write not because I am inadequate, but because I am inadequate. ASGF.