I really don’t feel like writing a thing. Has this become a duty? Inevitable, possibly, that it should, and yet it is as simple as not doing it to prove that there is no need to. Oh me, oh my, what would I choose? These morning pages are waking me gently, so there is every reason to want to do them, and yet a perceived obligation is every reason not to. I love that nobody but me has made it look anything like an obligation. I began to write every day and it seemed the thing to do, and now, six weeks later, it has transformed from whim to necessity. How fast the mind moves, how hard it works, to attach itself to anything it possibly can. It desperately clings to whatever can give it life, refusing to give in to the inevitable.