Super perfundo on the early eve of your day
Suddenly half a year has gone by. "You'll write more," you tell yourself, greeting every day with a promise that "Today will be the day I start on that story/essay/novel" and every day the same ending, a promise unfulfilled.
Is it a lack of inspiration? Motivation? Failure to launch, arrested development, insert-your-choice-of-pithy-cliche-that-has-been-coopted-by-a-romcom-and-or-sitcom? My mind always circles back to that line from "Waking Life", my favorite film when I was an insufferable pseudo-intellectual teenager: "Which is the most universal human characteristic--fear, or laziness?"