perfectionism

So why haven’t I made it a habit to pick those journals back up and start writing? Probably because that would mean admitting that I had missed years of journal entries, and if I do later add something about those missing years, it will be out of order. I wish I could go back through our calendars, text messages, and photos to try to piece together something of a family history to fill in the blank spaces first, but when will I find the time? So I wait, sitting on the side of the road, feeling that the enormous burden of my perfect ideal is too heavy for me to budge, much less pick up and carry.