I can write and listen to music at the same time. I can as in I am permitted to. But sometimes, often, I end up listening to the music and not doing any writing. And also sometimes I daydream and am not paying a lot of attention to the music and doing absolutely no writing at all. It’s raining out now, it was supposed to be a nice day, it was supposed to rain earlier in the morning. All these things that were supposed to happen. Like I was supposed to finish writing ages ago. I know how the time gets away. I let it get away. I bury my mind with reading and thinking, the kind that does not hurt me, or cause me any stress, and I let the day slip away. And then certain things need to take care of themselves along the way, like eating and sleeping and bathroom breaks and such. I should demand more of myself. I won’t fall apart. I think I know that now. I found some old essays I wrote in high school and in the first year of university. I saved them because I knew that one day I would want to read them, and I do, but I’m also scared to see what kind of shit I wrote. I don’t expect them to be good. I expect them to make me cringe and I haven’t read them yet. I haven’t felt like inducing cringes, but I suppose there will never be a time when I feel like inducing cringes. I shouldn’t be afraid to read them, but I’m like that with all the stuff that I write, the stuff that is to be judged by others, it makes me uncomfortable. If I’m just writing stuff for myself, or blog stuff, or just general stuff that is not meant to be intelligent or present solid arguments, then I don’t mind reading it over again, especially if it’s sort of humourous. I don’t mind reading that stuff at all. I find myself quite humourous sometimes, which is good, because if I didn’t then I probably wouldn’t read any of my writing over again. I guess I also like to compare my current state of mind with that of the past, just to see how, if at all I have changed, and in what ways and if they are good or bad, or just different.