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I have zillions.

But somehow the majority of them are never accomplished.

Not yet, anyway.

Take journaling for example. Over the years I’ve bought countless journals. If I go into a bookstore I will doubtless find my way to the area designated for all those fresh, blank pages. Back in the day I would rarely leave without purchasing one of those little (or big) treasures, only to have it mock me with its emptiness for the next few months on my bedside until, in a fit of desperation, it would be relegated to the stash I had hidden in a drawer somewhere. Out of sight, out of mind. Ah, peace. Until I walked into a bookstore again.

Funny thing is, I really LIKE to write, once I sit down to do it. Call me a nerd, but I absolutely loved my college English courses. I’ve actually looked on the web to see if I can find some sort of online writing class. For fun.

So why am I so unmotivated about journaling? Maybe I’m afraid of ink blots. Maybe it all goes back to my brother reading the very first journal I ever kept. Maybe it’s somehow linked to the anomaly of me being unable to leave the library without at least seventeen books, sixteen and a half of which will never be read, but which will always go on my “to-read” list.

Or maybe that’s a different goal altogether.

Someday I’d really like to get photos hung on my walls.

Maybe next week.

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