2026-06-26
For the first time in a long time, I have no idea what I want to write about today. Well, my family might be getting a cat soon, but that's a bit too soon to tell at this point. Honestly, it's kind of weird how little I feel like writing today. Things feel fine, but it's strange that I have no big battle to fight in my head. I guess when you get far enough along in a project like this, it offers a certain level of closure that makes it difficult to push through the day sometimes. Funnily enough, the mental cleanness actually makes it harder to write. I think most activities are defined by their resistance: what it costs to do them, what you're giving up in exchange for what you're getting, that kind of thing. The outcome is a bit different these days; when I look back on the early days of Cogito, there was much more viscera there. Back when I was first starting Cogito in 2024, prior to publishing it online, it was evident that I had a lot of intellectual and emotional anguish to process. Yet these days, many of my thoughts and conclusions have been thought through and turned into something actionable. Over 260 entries later, I still have this immense desire to write that I don't think will go away any time soon.
Yet in this period of mental stability, I feel a certain obligation to myself and to you; it's not that I want to maintain a streak or continuously forge an archive. I just feel so much better after I finish writing, as if something is resolved, even if it isn't. For what I put into this project, I am happy to receive the tangibles I do. Whether it be a consistent audience, emails from readers, or a directory that shows a life thought in motion, those things help me in ways that go beyond metrics. Still, a formula and a format emerge from any self-imposed structure; even if it comes through some kind of choke point, the last thing I'd want to do is ask myself how to make it bigger and more complex. After all, Terry Davis put it best: an idiot admires complexity, and a genius admires simplicity.
In this moment, there's not a stream, but a light trickle. That's fine with me, and in times like these, I can develop the muscles to push through this resistance. When there's a moment where there are "no thoughts," it's not like there's nothing going on up here; it's just that there's a resistance I'm trying to crack through. However, unlike athletic training, it's not something that makes you sore. Really, it feels like a series of self-imposed ceilings that can be broken and ascended infinitely. It doesn't matter how many I have to break through; there's as much potential for frustration as there is possibility. In this process, I have to ask myself: how should I be approaching this resistance? Do I keep breaking through, let the words be free, and take a chance at a potentially subpar line, or do I resist that temptation and take a step back—perhaps try to sit with the thought by itself with a different outlet?
A different outlet from writing? Man, that's tough. My mom was telling me the other day I need to get my saxophone out and start practicing again, and that would be pretty nice to do. I bust it out every year or two to see if I still got it, and I think I'm due for another checkup. Fuck, I'm nervous about getting this cat, man. Prayers would be appreciated.
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