I have an uncomfortable yearning, a yearning to create something, but I have no ideas about what specifically I want to create. My mind falls back on those things which I have enjoyed creating in the past: a programming language, a piece of writing or music. They are taunting me with old half-ideas that never became anything, and they remain half-ideas that are not sufficiently developed to become something. I have no constraints; I am blinded by the endless possibilities the world offers me and cannot even see into the next hour. I have no goals; my former underlying goal of progress has shown itself to be illusory, at least for now, so all I have to guide me is my own creative pleasure. It is picky and has the attention span of a gnat, except for when I manage to summon that elusive, intense weeklong focus which I am not sure I’ve had for years.