This blog is luggage tossed overboard from a wayward ship. It’s nothing. It’s flotsam and jetsam from my brain. It’s me getting past anxiety and perfectionism.
I’d love to tell you that it’s deliberately bad, but I’m actually trying. It wouldn’t be enough to just free-write loads of garbage; the aim of this project is to wear away at self-consciousness and self-criticism. You can only do that if you put forward everything you have and dare to look at how short you fall of what you demand from yourself.
Death is very close, he thought. When you think in this manner. I can feel it, he decided. How near I am. Nothing is killing me; I have no enemy, no antagonist; I am merely expiring, like a magazine subscription: month by month.
Philip K. Dick – ‘Galactic Pot-Healer’
I’ve chosen to undertake this now because it’s so late. I should have done this a decade ago. Longer ago than that. But you know what they say about the second-best time to plant a tree.
