I wonder if it’s more ridiculous to expect myself to be able to write at least a blurb a day even if its to spare just a single thought into words when so many whizz through my mind while I’m awake and asleep. Or to expect myself to be able to write at least a blurb a day by capturing a single thought into words when it so elusively escapes me like a wood nymph that escapes me each time because she is so repulsed by my being.

I turned 20 a week ago. 51 weeks left till I’m 21. There are too many numbers in that last sentence for me to not feel the finality of that.