Meant to write this post last night, but somewhere I lost focus. My Twitter account was giving me issues so paying attention to that seemed more important. It did at the time, anyway. Right now, it seems petty and foolhardy. Which can describe a mountain of decisions I’ve made in my thirty-five years. And the reason is always the same. It’s something I heard a lot in my adolescence. Clearly, I lack focus. In my writing. In life. In romance. Several ideas left on the back burner, shelved, or scribbled on quad pages long forgotten in my journal. When I do write something, I start going on tangents. I fall into traps of writing with morals and hidden imagery for people to decipher later when I’m no longer.
I’m going back to zero. Going to rebuild the craft for which I held such passion. And if I lose focus again, I’ll take it as I not longer want it. It’s a lesson I learned from Mark Manson’s book. And while I build that as my side hustle, I’m going to work on my job. Try new ideas I’d been too afraid to implement or scared to bring up to my superiors.
So here’s to my thirty-fifth year. And here’s to several more.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be
We’re as Nature has made us—hence
I loved them until they loved me
Chapin City Blues 