Resistance.

It’s not a feeling of being lost. More, misplaced. Scrambled rather than being a black hole of nothing.
What’s the point?
There is none. There doesn’t have to be a reason. Just as there doesn’t have to be a reason to breathe and live. Writing doesn’t need a reason–this is something that I consider a huge pillar in my years of accepting that I am a writer.
It doesn’t need a reason.
But, do I need a reason?
To publish, to finish this so-called ‘book’.
What am I afraid of?
Why can’t I accept things the way they are?
Why am I so resistant to giving up?

Self-doubt hammers me into the ground. Writing makes it better. But, self-doubt makes it difficult to be satisfied. So, I continue writing.
Isn’t that the point?
To just write.
But, then, why the blog?
To write. To prove something. To find meaning. To find a point.

Why have I focused on this ‘book’ for so long? With nothing to show for it?
Because I’m resistant to ever giving up.
Blind?
No.
Determined?
A little.
Delusional?
A little.
Stubborn?
More than anything else in my life.
My true feeling–if nothing comes of it, what have I accomplished?
Hardships, frustrations, writer’s block, what have I accomplished?
Something, or nothing. Or something.