For the nth time, I've been tempted back into blogging.
But something is different this time, more than me merely living up to my lethargic nature. Granted, I find these words I’m typing to be infinitely more interesting than the technical sobriety of academic writing. Yes, I want release but as my fingers fly over letters and I form them into words, I feel my usual sadness somehow mixed with… agony.
And it hits me: Am I suddenly being so maudlin, so uselessly sentimental?
Somehow I am gratified by the sadness I feel. Not because of a penchant for masochism, nor even a liking for angst situations. It’s because it makes me feel that all I had to go through to run the race was worth it...
Or is it just something I want to believe in?
But something is different this time, more than me merely living up to my lethargic nature. Granted, I find these words I’m typing to be infinitely more interesting than the technical sobriety of academic writing. Yes, I want release but as my fingers fly over letters and I form them into words, I feel my usual sadness somehow mixed with… agony.
And it hits me: Am I suddenly being so maudlin, so uselessly sentimental?
Somehow I am gratified by the sadness I feel. Not because of a penchant for masochism, nor even a liking for angst situations. It’s because it makes me feel that all I had to go through to run the race was worth it...
Or is it just something I want to believe in?
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