I’m home alone.
This is my favorite time. No contest.
But there’s a moment. The second I’m alone, before I’ve moved a single muscle. Right there.
My brain has already made plans. Sit down. Open Shorts. Swipe. Soak in dopamine like a warm bath.
It takes maybe half a second. My brain is very efficient when it comes to bad ideas.
And sure enough, a little later, I’m sitting somewhere, watching Shorts. Same spot. Same thumb. Time just slides by, like it has somewhere better to be.
Here’s the strange part.
I want to do a lot of things. I want to achieve a lot of things. I’m greedy, honestly. I have ideas the way some people have browser tabs. Way too many, all open.
So why don’t I want to do anything right now?
I don’t know. I really don’t.
Today I don’t have much faith in myself. And if I stay like this, I’m not sure about the future either. That’s the honest version.
But one thing I do know.
I’m a person who writes.
I write every day. Even on days like this. Apparently especially on days like this, because here we are.
I don’t draw the future.
I just keep writing. Right now. That’s all.