So much time has passed since I last wrote something. Like, really wrote something. I post photos occasionally to update the blog, or jot down a few words in my journal every now and again. But I find that I'm writing less and less these days. It's hard to figure out where to go with my words. The inspiration wanes.

And photography, another long lost love. I used to practice so often, bring my DSLR everywhere. It was never so much a honed skill or business venture as it was a hobby, but I loved experimenting anyway. Now I take portraits of friends when asked, continue to snap away at big family events as if it's expected. But where did the passion go? Exhilaration with every click of the shutter. I don't care how many likes I get, Instagram is no replacement for the real thing.

If I could sit in a coffee shop and read all day, I think I would. I've been dying to get my hands on some good old fashioned Fitzgerald. The Beautiful and Damned is next on my list. But I don't. Instead, the free hours of my days are spent watching television or mindlessly perusing social media sites. (Pinterest, I'm looking at you.) A huge time-suck, with nothing to show for it.

I've taken up yoga though, and for that, I am proud. Two or three times a week, I make my way to Washington Avenue for a class that leaves me sore the next morning. But still, something is off. Or maybe just missing. What am I waiting for, exactly?

The days are too short, the minutes too fast. By the time the clock strikes 5:00pm, I'm exhausted. Desk jobs, am I right? Soul-crushing. Even cooking dinner, an opportune hour for creativity, is too arduous a task for this zombie.

Is this adulthood? I don't think I'm made for it.

I keep telling myself how lucky I am. Because I am. Truly, I am. The people in my life hold me together and make it all worth it. But it's on Wednesdays like this one—when I'd sooner swap places with almost anyone than choose a forever of this—that nothing feels further from the truth.

Oh look, it's raining.