The Inbetweeners

I began writing this post as a way to kill time; roughly an hour before my next meeting. And I wish I could say that, by this sentence, I was struck by divine revelation. That, by now, I would have plucked a topic out of my tortured mind, the same way American "enhanced interrogators" provide free dental care. But, alas. The mind is blank, and so is this page.  To be honest, I'm not sure which I'm more frustrated at; that I have nothing to say? Or that, because  I have nothing to say, I have only been able to kill a mere 2 minutes of my 60 min downtime. I would argue the latter, given my thoughts on performative productivity and the feeling that laziness is to be dismissed. But, I believe it's the former. I have nothing to say, not because my mind is blank, but because it is too full. I can't pick a single thing to focus on and those that speak to me are far too personal for this medium.  So here I am. Staring at a blank page. Praying that words will fall upon...

I’ve been journaling, in an attempt to respond to my emotions, not merely react to them, and yesterday something weird happened. As I wrote down my prompt for the week - What do you love most about yourself? - I felt anxiety trickle down my spine. I didn’t understand why seven words could trigger fear and apprehension. But as I began to reflect on the question, my response justified itself. I could not think of a single thing I loved about myself. And in my silence, the question stared back at me in silent condemnation and, perhaps more unnervingly, gentle concern.  How could I, a 26-year-old, not know what I love most about myself?  Why could I only cite traits, memories and ambitions that my friends and loved ones loved about me?  Have I really spent that long shitting on myself, that I survive on external validation?  Good GOD, what would happen if that validation were to vanish? If I were to live life in a way those around me deemed unworthy, risky or, otherwise,...