I still have not developed a writing habit, despite this being a big dream and goal of mine. And my dreams are reproaching me. One night I dreamed that I went to a big exciting city, but instead of exploring it, I sat in an alleyway on an old sofa, surrounded by baboons, watching television. Last night, after having told a friend I dreamed of having a house on the ocean where I could putter around all day and write, I dreamed of a spoiled girl who had gotten rich and famous unexpectedly and had a house on the beach. All she did was complain.
I am dissatisfied with my inability to do the things I say I want to do. Write books, lose weight. Maybe I need a happiness project of my own.