Another day and very little sleep to start it with

Honestly, I am frustrated. I had a wealth of inspiration last night at about two in the morning. That happens to be when I finally made my way to bed after serenading my fingers with the sounds of my wonderful new keyboard. I can't now say whether the things which fascinated me as I lay drifting off to sleep were, in fact, worthy ideas, but I can say they were very inspiring. I ought to have been able to capitalize on the moment, except I was very tired. I continued to be very tired today. Only six hours of sleep, as it turns out, is not enough time for me to feel very rested. I once again found myself making excuses for napping during the morning.

So, nothing was written today. Another day of apathy. At least it is noted now. It is likely I will spend the rest of my day attempting to remember what had me so enthralled last night - or, actually, very early this morning. Perhaps I will remember it and find a chance to write some of it down. Perhaps not. Either way, it feels good to at least write about why I didn't write. If nothing else, at least I am writing.

The more one writes, the better the writing becomes. This is actually very true. Writing is actually a very difficult task to accomplish. Even unimpressive authors are at least impressive for their diligence in producing a product, no matter what the resulting opinion of it might be. Weeding through the distractions of life is no small task, but practicing any form of artistry is another skill altogether. Shamefully, I have been perpetually defeated by the combination of the two. I shall soldier on.