When I first started blogging I wanted to make sure I did something interesting and exciting every day to write about. Sometimes that seems easy, and sometimes it’s hard. It just depends.

At the moment it’s hard. I read a lot, and when I’m not reading I’m wondering ‘why aren’t I reading?’ so everything is questioned in terms of its contribution to some kind of academic productivity. (Yeah, I see how dumb that is now it’s on paper.) Also, I’m in that same arrested position of waiting for next year’s prospects that I’ve been in for at least the last six months, if not most of my life in one way or another.

(Really I have never deviated from whatever path I’m on. I failed no subjects in high school, I took no a gap year on holiday, I showed none of the aimlessness at uni that’s so fashionable for people my age. I just did my work, and it proved to be fairly easy. I don’t know what it means to be lost, or uncertain, or simply living the life without waiting for something better. That is what I’m like. Limited. It occurs to me that thinking you know what path you’re on can be an aspect of lostness.)

So as a result, there is nothing much to write about. I try as always and with varying degrees of success to do things that are worth doing. Often though, I just sit here and wonder about what sorts of things actually are worth doing.