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Once again, I ponder why I haven't written on here in a long while, despite a bunch of ideas floating in my head and what seems like some time to get them down on digital paper, whatever that means.

And then I realize, well, not really.

I have not been writing less. I have been writing the same amount as before, when I could write ten things per month on this blog. Now, though, I write in more places. One place gives me the rush of knowing that people actually read it, that people somehow appreciate it enough to make me write about them. A few other places, well, that's for work. You know what they say about how niche products are now more important than ever. Well, in my case there's a place for my radio frustrations, and another place where I can talk about the country without sounding like an angry lunatic (and also indulge that odd intersection between my love of walking cities and everything I have read on Monocle). That leaves this place - too general, little noticed, and still, apparently, my flagship.

The other factor is time. In the past couple of weeks, I have found myself having some time at night. I have nothing to read. I am not very sleepy. And yet I have never hunkered down to finally pen that thing that's bouncing around in my head. I have at least a couple, and yet they're still there, bouncing around, like balls in a lottery machine. "The number forty-twooo!"

And when I do write, it's for the music blog. I guess nothing does beat the thrill.

I will have to confess that writing here no longer gives me the same rush as I did before. Up until a couple of years ago I got some sort of satisfaction from writing those long essays - something like that smugness you get, that glow you possess when you finish building something with Lego bricks. That feeling I get more often lately, of forcing myself to write something - that isn't new, but lately it's been more common, because I have not really been building any ideas anymore. They stay stuck at that initial thought, never extrapolated, never bounced around enough.

I guess I have been spreading myself too thin.

The problem with being seen as the "writer" in a group: people ask you to write for them. Not really a problem for me, as it's my job now, more or less, but a part of me wishes I can still get to do it for myself. Sure, I still do, but it feels like I have not paused long enough to think about it. Also, I'm afraid that it will affect my writing, that the people who call my rudimentary word composition "like haiku" will think otherwise. I'm afraid that it will no longer come naturally to me like I always thought it did.

But then, perhaps I do not deserve to have any time for that anymore. I just turned 28. By now I should really be working hard, catching up very very hard. Whenever I stop to write I feel like I should be doing something else, like, I don't know, be ruthless for a change. Be opportunistic. Schmooze, kiss ass, think about your interests in a politician kind of way. What can I get out of this? "A sense of satisfaction" does not count. You need money, power! Look at the people around you!

Yeah, I have been looking at the people around me.

This is no longer a quarter-life crisis as it is a life crisis. I often feel I am stuck here. I often feel I will never move out of whatever it is I am in. I often feel that I will never have the strength to even ponder getting out of this - not after all that happened in the past couple of years, not after being reminded that some people will crush you for arbitrary reasons whenever possible. I will be stuck here as long as I do not have that capability. I am too kind for this.

I read The Dilbert Principle in the weeks leading up to my first job. I still remember its main argument: the more incompetent you are, the higher up in management you go. You do less damage that way. Maybe that means I am not incompetent. But why are my friends in better places than I am? And why do they have all the time for doing the things they love, and not me?

And your responses...

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