I wanted to write a novel.
Then, I read a novel this morning, and realized it was already written.
Ecclesiastes has it right: There is nothing new under the sun.
The story I read made me sad.
The story made me realize that I am sad. I have been for a long time. I hurt and I am tired of being alone, so of course the logical response to this is an insistence on being alone. I don’t want to deal with other people’s bullshit.
I don’t even want to deal with my own. In this moment, I acknowledge my sadness.
When this moment passes, I’ll do what I’ve been doing: press it down, shove a lid on it, and keep moving forward. The world doesn’t stop turning just because I need time to stop.
And the moment I needed to do something differently… that moment is long, long gone.
My novel won’t get written. My story is just like anyone else’s.