Six Months Later

Half a year later, the world, still, likely neither requires nor desires another self-indulgent report on the tragedies befalling my brain and the ludicrous circus that constitutes the effort to revive it. However, participating in the act of writing is vital to rediscovering the connections that have long lain dormant between my ailing neurons. If I sound whiny and pathetic, I have earned that right and make no apology for it; in fact, I preemptively retract any apology that I might make for it in the future.

I have not written nor felt able to write in many months. Alongside my ability and desire to play music, this has proven itself a reliable indicator of my progress. Additionally, I learned no new computer science and have not built any of the web projects that tickled my fancy when last I was optimistic. Offsetting this waste of life is the hopeful prospect that I might know what is actually wrong with me and that in the past couple weeks, I have been doing alarmingly better.

This is not an essay; it seems much closer to a poorly conceived, and even more poorly crafted, diary entry. For that, I apologize. It is one thing to butcher my own craft, another to butcher another's. I share this pittance only because it is all I have to offer at present.