Got a late start today, so apparently Karma says I have to make up for it by being incredibly busy. I've been in the office for three hours, and I've spent at least one hour answering e-mail, one hour acting as counselor, and one hour on the phone. It's 2:00 and I'm finally getting my first cup of coffee for the day - what does that tell you. So far I've learned that most doctors are quacks - they all just guess at the problem, and sometimes they get lucky and guess right. I've learned that if you subscribe to Ifit.com, eventually you'll catch an ear-worm - I've listened to essentially the same music over and over for so many months now that I often catch myself humming it. I've learned that my sister is a nutcase and sends me way too much funny stuff. At least it's Friday.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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