I want to accomplish something. I want to put myself wholly into a tunnel of writing and walk out the other side knowing that what I did mattered at all. I want to think that I what I do matters at all. I haven’t particularly hard at anything in quite a while. I used to tell myself that I had to the do the very best or something bad would happen. That sense of dread filled me until the deadline of an assignment. I would dress in my Hermione Granger best and walk to grade school, my frizzy black hair swinging behind me. Then, one day, I did drop the ball. I forgot something: a line in a report, a misspelling, a slight frown, a worse grade, and nothing happened. The world stayed intact and did not in fact swallow me whole. Consequences only mattered in-as-much as I cared about them. They weren’t that bad so I learned to care about them less and less. I want that dread back. I need the weight of negative consequences to push me because right now I have no motivation. I’m lying on my back, wishing that I could feel the pull of gravity or the push of grit. The soles of my shoes are worn from walking, but here I am desperate for any inkling of where to go next.