I almost skipped writing today. But whatever it is you'd call it in me, perfectionist or something else, it ends up I couldn't go through with it. I reached the end of my day and felt like I was on the verge of slipping into a sleep coma. Surely that was a good enough reason not to write, I rationalized. I've just never been good at skipping assignments. I said I'd write everyday since my 30th birthday, and so far I haven't missed a day. There might come a day this year when I need to take a "free pass," but sleepiness doesn't seem like a convincing enough reason.
So here's my thought for the day: It was one of those delightful days when I was too busy living to write about life.
I'm not saying that writing is a symptom of living less than a full life. However, some days life crowds out the writing and that's ok. That's when I keep my words short and sweet.