Monday morning. Blah. My stitches itch and are coming out today if I have to do it myself. Fortunately, I have a doctor's appt at 4:00, if I can stand it that long. On a work related note, the upgrade is done, our folks are all happy, but other areas are not so happy. Once again, I'm manning the phones, discussing possible causes and their solutions with other departmental support people. But that's okay, I like this particular role, since helping is what I enjoy most.
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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