Bleed

November 16th 2015

Today I had four items written in my diary. (Yeah, yeah, I have a diary… Get over it, it’s more like a day planner, I swear) 

Anyway. 

  1. Run
  2. Read
  3. Write
  4. Work

That’s it. Four words, 16 letters. 

I only did four of those letters today. The last four. I started work at 6pm. I woke up at 10am. That meant I had an 8 hour window with which to do something productive and I did the square root of fuck all productive with my day. 

I want to run 3 miles four times a week. I have a stack of books I promised myself I’d finish reading before the new year and I’m currently supposed to be participating in the National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo. Except all I’ve done this month is plan, and have ideas. I’ve written nothing. 

Because I’m lazy as fuck. 

In the last few weeks of travelling I was looking forward to coming home because I was looking forward to kicking on with my life. To writing. To reading. To running. I’d missed the three of them. And I couldn’t wait to get started. But since I’ve been back all that determination, all that excitement has faded. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s being back in this house, maybe it’s just a post travelling funk, maybe it’s because there’s loads of stuff going on. 

I can make tonnes of excuses, I’m pretty good at that, but when it comes down to it I’m just lazy. There was nothing stopping me running this morning. Or reading. Or writing. I wanted to. But why didn’t I? 

Couldn’t be bothered. 

It was once said that writing is the easiest thing in the world to do. You just sit at your desk, open your veins and bleed. 

And that’s true. Writing is easy, but for me I struggle with getting to the desk. When I’m there, I bleed fine. I just can’t get there. I can’t get myself to the desk even though it’s just across the room, and here I’m being metaphorical because I don’t have a desk in my room. 

But it’s the same as running, I enjoy running whilst I’m out there, but it’s… You know… Getting up. Putting your shoes on. Tying them up. 

Effort, ain’t it? 

It’s not. It’s really not. I know that. But it’s like, a mental stumbling block. I tell myself “you need to write. You need to read. You need to run.” And I just answer “Cba. Cba. Cba.”

Until tomorrow, I’m my own worst enemy. 

Jacn

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