I missed September. I thought it important to post every month. Throughout this whole endeavor, that was something I wanted to accomplish. An accomplishment is exactly how I thought of it. A boy-scout badge. A video game achievement. A mark of distinction with a defined goal and defined reward: post every single month and the “Archive” will have a listing for every single month. All the way back to when I started. It will look nice, and clean, and will show my commitment to doing what I want to do.
But I missed September.
It makes me sad. I realize that it is not the end of the world, and that things rarely are so nice in the real world – that I shouldn’t stop trying to make that my goal even if I’ve already failed in some metric. That 99% is rarely distinguishable from 100%. But it still makes me sad that I missed September. And I know that I am trying to convince myself that I didn’t fail, because it hurts to admit it.
I said that I wanted to show a commitment to doing what I want to do. AM I though? AM I doing what I want to do?
I don’t know. My honest, in the moment answer to this, when I take a step outside my body and ask, is “I don’t know. I guess so?”. I feel like if the answer is truly “yes” then I shouldn’t be letting goals like this fall by the wayside.
But there are so many things I want to do, and never enough time. So many things that, if I had the opportunity to, I would gladly work on for eight hours a day or more. Things that I would commit half of my life to, if they could provide for me and my family. But mostly- they just can’t. Rarely are people able to support a family with their writing, and that is by far the most realistically achievable goal utilizing my passions. “Utilizing”. Fuck utility- the concept takes all of human creativity and enterprise and shaves it all away into the narrowest possible scope based solely on what produces the most wealth for the ruling class. As measured by a currency that we made up.
My disappointment in myself for missing September is making me lash out. That and my sleep deprivation.
It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, I missed September, and that’s it. There’s nothing for it, so rather than take myself through the stages of grief, each amplified by my anxiety at the other tasks that need doing, and the stress of work, and the lack of sleep, it is better to just move on. No qualifiers. Just acceptance:
I missed September.