WRITING: Getting My Hands Dirty

It has begun. The writing that I have avoided or been too lazy to attempt has finally been uncovered in the pile. The reading is as well a thing with deadlines. Dedication was never a problem with me–that instead suited well my centered focus. Priority, aye, there’s the rub; me was never at the forefront except through acts not altruistic nor completely selfless, for every act we do for someone else feeds ego just as well. And too, lack of ambition is easily excused by sinking into ruts of despair as much as comfort. Unless I die tomorrow I must rise and face the day. Unless I be enfeebled I must act. The days go by so quickly that there are now seven missing from an estimate ten thousand at the most–much less I’m sure, and even so, twenty thousand have gone by already with naught to show. What if there are only a few dozen? What have I to leave but words behind?