My life is just a dream

I’ve gone to this new post page several times in the last week, dithering back and forth about writing here or on Celebrating Time, knowing that nobody but me really cares, except for my few very loyal readers who really do care, except that they don’t agree with each other in their caring.

But, really, who cares? What’s important for a writer is to write; to write without the dark nemesis hanging over one’s shoulder saying Who cares? Why write about that? And why are you writing here and not there?

And really I’ve had such a boring set of tedious problems lately, like spending hours on the phone with British Air, only to find ourselves marooned next December in Miami with the agent who forgot about getting us a ticket home suddenly unreachable; and like my iPhone turning itself completely into Japanese; and like my lovely new Fitbit telling me I wake up at least 9 times every night, which is really better not to know.

But there’s one really really good thing: unlike Jared Loughner, I gave up on lucid dreaming.

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One Response to My life is just a dream

  1. Pingback: Each boring life is different … | Refraction

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