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. 


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