My goal to write once a day has been harder to accomplish than I thought it would be. Most of all, because I don't find I have anything of substance to write about. I used to have the ability to live a relatively full life, filter out the nuggets of an experience and find a moral in most of my stories. A beginning, a middle and a final paragraph with meaning.
Hmphf.
Has that ship sailed? Or has it not even left the port? I scribble down thoughts when I think of them because most of my thoughts these days are fleeting. I have trouble holding onto the little storylines that run through my mind on the daily. It's a little like catching a wafting tuft of cat hair that is caught up in an air draft and appears like it may float along endlessly. This explains why I need to vacuum the moment I think I'm done. But the state of my brain? A little worrisome.
My well worn reminder to write is littered with coffee stains, figures and notations of various snippets of my mind as I have stumbled through the month.
I am trying. I hope to improve with age ...
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