Every little bit of writing counts, I should think. This post, dropped much later in the day than the norm, ought to count just as much as the one dropped before the sunrise. Yet it feels different. Writing is as much about ritual as it is about content. We seek the truth in our words either way, but it feels more world-weary towards the end of the day. I think most optimists are morning people. The realists and pessimists tend to sleep in, as if not wanting to face the day.
We write to share. It doesn’t matter if it’s perfect, it never will be. All that matters is publishing and living to fight another day. It doesn’t matter that we’re nodding off from too much food and drink and work for one day. All that matters is clicking publish and feeling like we didn’t let ourselves down today. We don’t half-ass the work, but we do the best we can given the circumstances.
Today’s circumstances call for a quick post and an optimistic nod to the future. I’ll soon tackle more chronicles of figuring things out and stumbling upon beauty. For now, I’ll simply celebrate shipping against all odds.