Writer’s block sucks. So does the feeling of being philosophically constipated. I’m not even sure what that means, but I have this urge to want to write something meaningful about all the changes in my life recently, how it impacts me, and how it’s turned out relative to what I expected, but nothing. I’m anaemic. I sit here at my keyboard waiting to bleed and nothing trickles out. 

I’m an impatient man. I’m constantly contemplating the consequences of what we’re contemplating now, and instead of accepting that a long term goal is in fact a long term goal, the moment it takes a shape or form in my head, I feel compelled to realise it now against some ridiculous self-imposed deadline.

At least I can still ramble nonsensically without much effort, so perhaps not all is lost yet. It still sucks though. 

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