I am writing, not thinking, not editing. On a balcony with coffee in my pajamas with this notebook and pen.

I feel guilty about eating too much, drinking too much, not writing enough. I should probably put something green in my mouth. Bread, cheese, meat. Repeat.

I should be reflecting and writing more. No distractions. Too tired. My back hurts. That bed is too soft. I should stretch every morning. I should exercise more at home. I hate the gym. I will never go back. I will go for a long walk after this coffee.

Why can’t I be a morning person? At home it’s impossible, but here in bed at 10pm, up at 7am. Maybe it is possible. Just not in New York. Is NYC killing me and I don’t even know it? It’s beautiful here. There is happiness here. Or is it what I want to see?

I would have less back pains if I did the exercises I know I should do everyday but I don’t. Only 5 or 6 minutes out of my life. Why am I wasting time?

Routines make me feel dead.

I’m sunburnt. I should wear more sunscreen, sit in the shade more. More, more, more of this, less than that. I hate rules. Cancer is possible. My body is aging quickly. I should stretch more.

Why am I checking work email? Boring. Why am I checking social media? Useless. I’m here to disconnect. I should be checked out. I promised myself. I suck at promises. I suck at routines.

Only myself to blame.

Only myself to give me a break. A fucking break.

I will have a beer. It is noon now. I wrote this so that is something.