Suppose I was to start writing a blog, what would I write about? Suppose it was a daily thing, what would I say?

Today I am worried about my rent, my lodger, my pension. I have no particular reason to worry about these things, but I am. Also I am feeling very lonely, with very little sense of how I might change that. There are no doubt ways, but I’m not sure what those ways are.

Also I’m failing. That is a strong feeling. My bedtime thoughts. And now I will list what I have achieved today. It becomes harder. It becomes harder because everything I have done today seems worthless.

I sent the edited Africa book back to Victor in Poland, and outlined in the email to him how I might travel to Poland next year.

I did some work on the short story Rare and Bloody.

I went to the market and bought some vegetables and other food.

The day has very largely been coloured dull grey. The greyness is a veil that shrouds everything, and sucks the life out of everything. All my wonderful revelations and understandings of recent days seem to have been swallowed up by a great fish. The lodger talks too loudly, the trumpet players in town are out of tune and time.

The real truth is that if I am to start writing a blog, today is not the day to start. But then, did I write a sonnet this morning? I think I did. I’ll find it, paste it here, and let it end my first blog.

It is all the things that fill the day,

the things that have no meaning, things that hurt,

that rock inside, disturb, and disempower.

Today I’ve failed already countless ways,

failed to solve the problems I’ve created

out of nothing, out of waking up, out

of reading, out of seeking a better

world from sitting alone in my room.

It’s all the things that fill the space

between my shoulders, dissatisfy me,

distract me, make me less, those nasty things

I cannot find a way to overlook.

But here what I must do is love those parts.

This doesn’t quite make sense. I’m stuck, fucked. Hearts!

Yeah, I think that pretty much sums up day one. Though I don’t think anything can quite say enough today. I will end with one thing of cheerful note, I’m learning to touch type, and actually feel as if I’m making progress. I’m typing this now, without looking, ponderous but true.