It isn’t every day you can say you’ve done something worthwhile.
And while that’s perfectly okay, I wonder if I’m not secretly, accidentally trying to force myself to be able to say so anyway. Sure, it’s nice just lounging some days, but I always have this weird feeling. Like when you know you’re forgetting something but you’re not sure what. Something that makes me a bit uneasy, makes me feel less comfortable just being comfy. Like I haven’t hit some arbitrary quota and my day hasn’t been worth living yet because of it.
I don’t even want to speculate it, but who really knows if this blog plays a role in that. Hell, it’s the one thing I have done most consistently over the past (nearly!) six years. And it’s something I’m proud of, enough to force myself to uphold to the standard I set so long ago. And that does mean I produce output every single day, but it doesn’t always leave me satisfied. More often then not, it’s either neutral (“same old routine”) or negative (“wow what a shit post, but I can’t do better today”).
And yet, I come back day after day to write my words and send them outward. Trying to hit that quota, I suppose. But if that keeps me from really relaxing, do I want that in my life? It doesn’t directly contribute to my happiness. There’s indirect influences, sure, but there’s many more efficient sources.
See, this is one of those days again.