Even now as I sit here writing this, I am wracked with an intense hesitance. Not without reason, as I promised myself that I’d go to sleep by midnight, so as to avoid the inevitable complications. Here I sit at the kitchen counter, staring at the dishes dirty in the sink, having taken a Benadryl, neglecting my resolve to actually do a thing for once (or, to do nothing, I suppose?). At the very least, one of these failures in the venture of habit formation constitutes some tangible progress in the form of a first step: an acknowledgment. That I did set this goal for myself, that I did work up to it (having cut a conversation among friends adequately short), and that it simply did not work out, as my mind was too preoccupied with the current matter to sleep. No excuses for the dishes, however…

Why am I writing now? It is because I have been skirting around a bigger failure of autonomy for a few years by now. One that has been chipping away at whatever pretentious notion of self-determination I might be intellectually parading at any given moment. One that points to my fear of failing to live up to my own aspirations, reinforcing the very same conditions for its own grievance like a dastardly, ever-looping Ouroboros. One that continuously debases the very breath I utter whenever it claims to want to write only to fade into a few choice ears.

Nevertheless, I declare this small act of self-expression to be my first step. With my flag of conquest in hand, and a suspiciously pen-shaped lance on the other, I’ll charge towards the terrifying dragon. I might be paralyzed in fear every once in a while. In fact, right now I am horrified at the prospect of mocking on-lookers, jeering at my judicious use of filler phrases, pompous parenthetical pondering, among other chinks in my armor. In any case, the intention is to victoriously reclaim my resolve from the self-justifying paradox of failing to fail. Let us hope this Ouroborous isn’t also part Hydra! :]