I am writing a story. It is contiguous in presentation, perhaps fractured in content. It is in sequential numerical order.
I was writing a story – putting aside judgments of its quality. However, that goal is on indefinite hiatus. Now, I am simply trying not to drown in a wave of anxiety – for a long time mounting and towering over my shoulder and known mostly in the vagueness of its undefined shadow – that has crashed down on my entire Weltanschauung. Call it an existential crisis, depression or a brute fact. Call it imperative.
The Myth Formerly Known as Sisyphus 