You know that thing that is good for you, but you don’t do it? And you think about it all the time? About how good it would be?
Exercise. Eating better. Juicing. More alone time. Less work, more pleasure.
You think about it. But you don’t do it. And then you think about how you suck for not doing it.
No? Just me?
For me, it’s writing. In a notebook. With a pen. It’s always good for me. I always get so much out of it. It always rules. And yet, I don’t make the time. Or put in the initial effort of just opening the notebook. Picking up my pen.
Maybe it’s because it’s just for me. It’s only mine. Maybe that’s not important enough.
Maybe it digs too deep. What if I fail? What if it exposes that I’m not good enough?
Maybe I’m just tired. It’s easier to watch baseball and tweet and edit photos. It’s easier to hang out on the surface and not have to answer the hard questions I ask myself.
Maybe I just need to be more disciplined. I should set a timer. Or something.
Maybe all of these things.
The hardest part is getting started. The hardest part is keeping going. The hardest part is not stopping. The hardest part is starting again.
Maybe it’s just hard. All of it.
And maybe that’s okay.