In Which I Talk Myself Into Continuing These Posts

A week-plus into these postings and the familiar has arisen: what’s the point? is this really what I want to be doing?

Realization: there cannot be a gaining idea in these posts. There cannot be a point other than to write them. This is where the great mistake, agreeing to become executive director of a non-profit and allowing a new anxiety to treat my brain as its viral host, continues to plague, feeding off insecurity and the need for numerical expression of the worthiness of content. The ED role ended years ago, even though it hasn’t ended mentally. In their best iterations—in my best iteration–these Informalities act as a cheap means of transcending that insecurity and digital agoraphobia; in their worst, they are the means by which a new anxiety forms, using the great mistake as its vehicle for metastasizing.

As I let myself fall victim to the worst impulses of my brain’s fuckery, I found myself staring at the page on which they live and realized that I want to continue writing them because I enjoy writing them.

Quandary solved, for the moment.

Within 50 pages of the end of QUIXOTE, and our erstwhile heroes are again under the patronage of a rich asshole who wants to entertain himself at their expense. Rewrite from the perspective of Rocinante and Dapple.

(TW)