Strained

It's really straining to write here like this. Without being thoroughly sincere. Without having any kind of muse to write about what it is that I should be writing about. I am so afraid of what will come out at the end of any kind of writing exercise that I stick to blogging and blogging only. Even at that, I am horribly failing. It's like the Gods have set this tennis match with me being against blogspot. Blogspot is winning and I am in my corner, perspiring like a pig and knowing there is no chance of winning, I've given up, doing it for the sake of some sort of regulator in my mind.

It really is straining to do this. My eyes have nearly closed, the lines are blurry, and my fingertips hurt from pressing on the key board and deleting everything. They find their way without a hitch, so carefully. I like the sound of the keyboard as my fingers press on them. It feels comforting. I don't like the sound of the enter though. It's too hard, too rough. It's like the barbarian I have become. In any minute, I will regress back to being a neanderthal.

Why do I even do this anymore? It's clear that I have nothing constructive or of value to say. Or even when there is, I skip over it and get stuck over the depressive and mundane. I can't seem to be able to write anything good. I can't seem to be able to write anything necessary, important and of note worthy. Something that would actually draw an audience. I keep babbling on and on, about, I don't even know what.

I need a wake up, I keep getting it. Though I can't seem to release myself of my own nightmare demons, I've created myself and in it, the biggest devil is still me. I'm sick of this. It's a repeating cycle.

This is straining. Trying to fill in my word count, and always failing anyway. What's the point? What's the point of writing, of this blog, of filling my daily word count goal. What's the point of talking about things that don't matter?

It's straining to be talking about something, anything at all.