I can’t sleep.

Between getting up with the intention to write this I’ve drunk some water, played Mario Kart 8 on my Switch, smoked a cigarette (I don’t smoke) and created eight different paths down which my mind might take me. I didn’t just get down to writing. I’m an addict. I’m addicted to the act of failing. I feel that if I find the perfect failure I’ll find, at the root of that feeling a perfect sense of who I am.

I woke up this morning in a pool of my own urine (could it have been anyone else’s?)#oversharing. My catheter had blocked and so I bypassed it. No intention just mess. I cleaned it up and got on with my day, failing to inform a friend with whom I’d made an informal arrangement that I couldn’t actually honour because of a far more formal arrangement with another friend. What followed the cleaning up was a superb day of friendship.

That has both elements of success and failure about it. The intention to carry on surpassed the fact of differing arrangements. I honoured one contract at the cost of another. Yet there was about this a sense of purpose and will. There’s so much more to tell and yet I want to sculpt my feelings into something readable and concise. If I continue to write here I alienate a potential audience who have some time but not much to dedicate to an outpouring of doubt. If you’ve got this (?) far then thanks. I’ll stop and see that as a success.