Friday the 13th.... let's try not to think about that, shall we? So far, my luck's all been good - the Freightliner on our ass as we went through the road construction at White Bridge Road this morning did not plow into us, although his brakes took a beating. There aren't many sounds more frightening than the sound of a semi trying desperately to stop - unless you count the sickening crunch that sometimes follows. The servers and/or their various applications did not die this morning, but the day is young. It's cool outside, there's football tomorrow, and I can sleep late in the morning if I want to. Life is good.
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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