March 24, 2021•307 words
It's been a third of a year. Yet I don't really remember it.
There's a delicate balance to be achieved between keeping myself sane with routines and making memories and remembering my own life. Too much routine, and time becomes a blur; too little and I become depressed. I am, after all, a creature of habit. The problem is that my life is passing me by, and I don't feel like I have anything to show for it. I guess that's why I take on so many projects and responsibilities - if I'm going to be in extreme habits, I may as well have something to show for it - but that takes away from my happiness. See last post.
I'm pursuing something. I don't know what it is, but I'm pursuing it and pursuing it blindly. 99 days of writing hasn't gotten me any closer - and I don't even remember most of what I wrote, or where or when I wrote it, unless I go back and read over my posts. That may simply be because this 'mesoblog' has existed disconnected from my life (mostly) and more as a floating log of thoughts, but I believe there's something much more to it.
I want to continue to do this, as well as quantified self, keeping a journal, etc. But I'm burned out, and don't know if I can keep writing every day. It feels like a sort of time-consuming chore at this point. When I don't feel like I have 'time' for writing, it's really difficult to get done. I doubt I would keep writing habitually if I didn't do this nightly, or even if I had higher-quality posts. I guess I need to make time for it.
Anyway, it's past my bedtime. Tomorrow's day 100. And it'll be just like any other day.