You suck.

Well… yes. Truth be told, I thought I’d only forgotten about this blog for like, a couple of months… not a whole fucking year, Jesus. It’s a good thing that the title of my first post still maintains itself; my name is still Veronica, and I am indeed still a jackass. At least something’s consistent, am I right, folks?

Shockingly enough, I even lack excuses as to why this blog has been drier than the godforsaken Sahara desert; perhaps my brain has just been devoid of meaningful thought for the past year (running away from my responsibilities? It’s more likely than you think! [insert laughter track]).

I shouldn’t be too hard on myself, really. I truly did mean well; I was constantly coming up with ideas to write about, and it’s not as if I failed to accomplish much during my year away from this commitment (if I can even still call it one, ha).

I mean, I’d like to say that I just had too many things to do, and not enough time to do it with; but that would, of course, be a huge, blatant fucking lie. I had too many things to do, and a bottomless pit of demotivation too big. Now, that’s more like it.

I eventually realised that there was a specific pattern to my erratic journaling habits—if you could really even call it that. It goes like this: I have something to do, and, as per usual, my brain refuses to do it. My mind wanders, arriving at the same destination every time it does so: all the painfully embarrassing things that I’ve written in the past.

It kind of scared me, how I really didn’t think about… well, anything back then, really. At least, not when I compared it to how utterly self-absorbed I seemed in the distant past. My mind was an endless blank, an infinite inversion of itself; every time I tried to introspectively visit a thought, my brain performed five somersaults in a row and tried its best to emulate a washing machine on its highest setting.

I knew it all along; promises made to myself are largely empty, and ultimately, rather meaningless. All of my writing was based on pain. Hilariously enough, there was nothing for me to say in the absence of emotional turmoil. I supposed that it was largely true, what they say—how people must suffer in order to make great art. Although in my case, we could probably do with leaving out the ‘great’ part; there’s nothing great about cowardice, after all.

Shit is happening, folks

For sure, this time! I promi— Nah, I won’t. I feel as if the act of making promises is essentially the equivalent of jinxing it all the same; we’ll have none of that here. Until I can keep my own promises, that is.

But, yes, shit is indeed happening. It’s been an agonisingly slow, slow process, but I can say with certainty that we’ve knocked on motivation’s metaphorical door, at the very least. Proof, you say? Well… I’m here now, aren’t I?

We’ll see how long it’ll last.