Journal, March 31, 1977 PM

I’m losing interest in this journal. It seems like just another chore writing in it. I’m not doing anything at all unique or especially interesting. My work is boring. My love life is fine, but who needs another love story?

I don’t know. I feel like a lackey stuck in another of an endless series of ruts. Keep at it even though you’ve forgotten why, some day . . . I should be writing something creative if I’m going to write!

I should be reading, investigating, cataloging facts & experiences, codifying my philosophy of life. But I’m a lackey. Who knows if I’ll ever stumble out of my series of ruts and onto an idea?

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