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a hard rain

Looking at the task I’m faced with, the eleven, or twelve, or thirteen books I want to complete, I realise that I just can’t carry that burden. I can’t commit to writing every day for the rest of my life in order to complete my allotted task.

It’s a dismal prospect.

This afternoon I imagined a world in which I did not write and it felt really good: light, happy, friendly. Just the thought of the hoisting back up onto my shoulders that burden of writing made me feel dark and oppressed.

Change is coming.

 

 

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