August Something, 2017 (Sunday)
It doesn't feel right. The atmosphere is stagnant, like yesterday and the day before and every other day for the past three months, unceasing, unchanging, constant.
To be honest, it's not really surprising, because how can today be any different when today is yesterday is last week is last month is half-baked effort, mumbling "I'll do it tomorrow" under my breath beneath heavy eyelids; is just another L A Z Y S U M M E R and a thousand more wasted afternoons until it's over?
The Feeling is important. Every morning (or late afternoon, as is the case nowadays), I wake up and taste the air, searching for that one something that magically fuels my body and synchronizes my mind and soul to SHOUT and RAGE and Be Determined To Accomplish Something. Most days it's too weak, too soft, just another voice among the whispers in my brain, so I cover the pot and let it simmer for a while longer. I know, it's a bad idea to rely so much on a Feeling that is so fickle, so unpredictable, but this is one bad habit I won't be able to break until deadlines start slapping me in the face.
For now, I wait, turning the heat up slowly every night before I fall asleep, hoping that I'll wake up soon to a heaping helping of just the right Feeling to jumpstart my productivity.
Maybe it was foolish to hope that The Day would come before I reached the final act of this whimsical dream, but a fool's hope has always been my specialty.
And here I sit at last, reviving my pen, inviting words to return to my fingertips as they once did so long ago, watching the waves of tomorrow crash ever closer, trying just enough to wake up and wonder if I'm still dreaming.
It's a disappointing feeling.
Maybe tomorrow things will change.