An excerpt from my personal journal dated October 13th, 2018
I need to write more. That's what I always think. But I don't. I just don't. I "don't have enough time". Truthfully I don't have enough to write about. Every thought I have every day is the same as the day before. I think about how unhappy I am with where my life stands in a multitude of ways. When I have these thoughts, they always follow with irrational anger and self-hatred. I shouldn't be allowed to be sad. I have my own career. I work for myself. There are people who would kill to be in my position. But why isn't it enough for me?
I've moved again. For the 20th+ time. I get fucking jealous of people who've lived in one or two places and don't feel a sense of detachment from everything. Every time my roots start to grow, I pack up and leave for somewhere new. I'm made for the road.
I drove up to Ann Arbor last week to back up some photos but ended up buying a new lens and touring around with a friend instead.