I made chicken broth soup. It was very good. I also unintentionally took a 5-hour nap. Aside from the mundane ups and downs of day-to-day life, as they especially present themselves as "noteworthy" during the era of the pandemic, there's a greater shift happening.
I started feeling an intense, almost ominous sensation that something has shifted, both within me and externally two days ago. Things will never be the same again, but to be fair, each fleeting moment has its irreversible effects. And yet each fleeting moment feels as though it escapes me from through the cracks of my clenched fists trying to capture a moment in time through any sort of artistic expression. The only thing I really can do is try to capture time in a sense that is most dear and personal to me. Whatever that may be, since deep down I am insecure in my genuine feelings of passion and interest, to not only share with the world but to expose that to myself.
I keep saying this but it is absolutely mind-boggling to me how I can I be so confident of myself, and love myself, and I always seem to have something to fill the silence with, yet have such a hard time connecting to what it is that I truly want to say. Probably the root of my problem is shame of some sort, an artistic pigeon-hold that I desperately feel the need to break from. It is also truly a shame how much self-pity there is versus me just putting stuff out without worrying about public perception. This diary entry definitely feels like the 24-year-old quarter-life crisis version of a Tumblr blog post, but maybe it's just what I need.
I go night night.