Nothing feels compelling enough to write about today. The thought starters, the thoughts from the day. They lose their sheen before the very obvious, very loud pain in my neck.
Why do I come, then? It’s a ritual now. It feels nice to have written. And it feels not nice to have not written.
I know this isn’t meaningful, profound, significant, entertaining, or even thought-provoking. It’s mine, though. It’s a wonderful feeling to own real-estate on the internet where you’re free to do what you please.
This is how my wife must feel about wanting a house of our own. Something to decorate, to do up, and feel safe in the knowledge that your work is out and about for perpetuity, at least for the next few years. In a rented place, it’s harder to think of perpetuity as anything longer than a few months.
Substack, medium, wordpress - they all feel fake. I don’t want to chase numbers. I like having the freedom to turn this into a rant about how dehydrated rice in biryani has been a (metaphorical) pain for me for a while now.
Streak is done. For today. Streaks are bad. Duolingo streaks are the worst. I often prayed for mine to end.
Well, I’m not so lucky today. It continues.