Researchers have confirmed what speakers, actors, and college students have known for years: Stress causes forgetfulness. Well, duh. Actually, I find it very comforting, since stress has been a diagnosed condition in my life for quite some time. Stress is why I have acid reflux and gastritis. Stress is why my heart has an occasional arrythmia. Stress can now be blamed for my geriatric episodes, such as not remembering if I set the alarm or took my medicine or put the coffee pot back in the machine before making coffee. I'll quit worrying that I have early stages of Alzheimers, since that just increases my level of stress.
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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