Seven questions, about three minutes. At the end, what they suggest about the shape of your life right now, written plainly.
Seven answers is not a life. What you get at the end is written from yours, but it is working with very little.
The journal gives it the rest: the scenes you write, and the sentences you place yourself in, across body, mind, relationships, work and meaning.
Nothing here is recorded or sent.
A sentence or two. Whatever was actually going through your mind. It is optional, and it is the line most likely to appear in your reading.
Not what it should do. What it does.
No one: not family, not colleagues, not the version of you people expect.
Not a rift. The ordinary friction of having wanted something someone else did not.
Not the competent edition. The actual one.
Not in passing. The version where they waited.
Actually in it, with a date. Not something you intend to arrange.
Count honestly. Sleep does not count.