I will write.

I must write. I must get into the habit of simply throwing thoughts onto the page. This is how it begins, it’s not pretty. Thoughts come disorganized and unfiltered. Tangled messes of thinking. Half-formed, aborted ideas barely deserving mention. These are my thoughts. I must work them into the gold I wish them to be. Just as a man is raised from a boy, good writing will be reared from this filth.

Filth, is it really? Has writing well eluded me, or have I changed so much that I don’t recognize my written self? The more I think about it, the less clear the solution becomes. This is it, this is writing. Much the same as it has always been, it is I who has changed. It must be.

Grammar? I’ll get to it. Style? I’m working on it. Content? Wracking my worn brain as I type each word. I feel my intellect has waned in the last year. Words grow harder to find, constructing sentences requires more effort, speech is often difficult and tiresome. I don’t know what caused the decline. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe the lack of social interaction. Maybe an underlying condition undermining any progress. I feel less capable, less intelligent, less clever, slower, duller, lacking insight, generally depreciated.

On the contrary, this could be an awakening. A forced end to my arrogance as I grasp the limits of my fully matured cognitive ability. This is it. This mind, this ability, it’s all I have.

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