Life goes by whether you want it to or not. You are, if you are lucky about it, going to get older and accumulate experiences. If you’re not careful, their importance and effect will be reduced. It’s far too easy to see one week become a month, become a year, become a decade, and you find yourself living the same life with the same unfinished aims and with nothing further to aid to your life.

One reaction to the passage of time is to become more conservative, to actually avoid change. This might explain why I was so deadset against Windows 10 and how bloody annoying it is that it seems to have installed itself on my computer anyway. It means that I don’t care how good Noah Wyle is, he is no Jon Stewart and he can sod off. It means that in terms of politics you see generations making the same mistake over, and over, and over again, with no voice loud enough to say ‘excuse me, can we think about this for a second?’ It becomes the same seaside caravan in Rosslare each year, and nothing ever seems to improve.

You know the one I mean…

So I have decided that even if I make the wrong decision, and I’ve spent a lot of my life being afraid of that, I’m getting less afraid of that being the outcome. I’m feeling more reckless these days, perhaps with a clearer view of my own mortality, and so might soon make a decision more on my internal desires rather than wot will please t’ neighbours…

No, I don’t know what I mean either. But watch this space. Literally. This one right here, beside the full stop coming up. Okay? This one.

So. Writing. For about two weeks now, I’ve not written a word. Instead, I watched thoughts about writing come and go and pass me by, like seeing something pass me as I sit by a river. Instead, I’ve been going into work at 6.30am and working away.

Interestingly, you don’t accomplish a great deal by going into work at 6.30. You just accomplish more of the same. As is pointed out to me in many different ways, the life of an administrator is essential, but unimportant. I’m a cog, and not much more. So I go home as tired as a Benny Hill cliche with no real sense of having done very much.

And the writing, well, as it moves away from me I’m seeing how unlikely it is that I can do anything with it, or accomplish anything. I’ll have to dig at the mountain with my pick axe for a very long time to sculpt anything out of it. These ladies deserve a decent platform and I’m honestly wondering if I can do it.

It is scary how persuasive that voice is, that says to leave it, someone else can do it. My personal motto is Stultum est non conantur. That would prove me the biggest idiot.