I'm in class this week. It's not a good week to be in class. It's not a good week, period. Fortunately, it's only a three day class, so I'll be finished tomorrow. Fortunately, class let out early today so I could go to work for a little while. That's how bad class sucks - I'd rather be at work, pretending to be productive. Fortunately, there are laws against killing my instructor, otherwise I'd be on the 10:00 news. He's a nice guy, but very, very annoying.
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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