Fatigue
Using my imagination is exhausting
Throughout last night, and early today, I wrote indulgent fiction. It wasn't many words, but it felt like hours passed me by in an instant. Where did the day go? I had so many things on my to-do list. I guess I still have some time, but I'm tired. I laid down for a bit, then I got up and ate; had some salad and orange juice. Will it fuel me til night?
Am I using my time properly? Nevermind, I shouldn't worry about that. Just living is good.
Even if I spin a tale I don't want to show anyone, it's still good practice. I can use the skills I develop for work that I do want to show the world some day.
But even just writing is admirable. There are people who pursue works that they will never live to see the finished result of. Finishing isn't what matters. That reminds me, someone said that a work can never truly be finished. What is finished? If finished isn't perfect, then is that really true? I think it's finished when I decide to never work on it again.