The End of Writing

I want to write this sentence. No hesitation to erase the “__” that preceded this sentence. Erased. Never there. There’s an awareness that it was there. I won’t dwell on it. Whatever it is. So, let’s move on.

I think of the practice. I think of what is the practice, sans italicized is.

I want to write _______

Not books.

I’m tired of books.

Of writing, really.

I just want to be happy, find joy, peace.

And that means destroying this 2nd book. This 2nd book that has brought me nothing. Stress. Self-doubt. Anxiety. Depression. Feeling more like I have to write than I want to write. Because I don’t want to write what I think I have to write anymore. I just want to write what I think I feel I want to. And that’s probably something different than what I have been writing. And what I write next probably won’t be that much better, and, probably, that doesn’t matter. And probably, nothing does.

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