Things that are un-fun - Sitting in an emergency room on a Sunday afternoon. Michael had an allergic reaction to something that went from itching like he'd been given morphine to difficulty breathing. No one has any idea what might have caused it, but it took two shots and about an hour before he was stable enough to come home. We're concerned that it might be his blood pressure medication, but since he's been taking it for a month and a half with no problems, the doctor doesn't think that it's the culprit. The only other thing was the fresh spinach salad I fixed for supper Saturday night, and it's doubtful that it would have taken that long to cause that much reaction. At any rate, I'm tired today. Welcome to Monday.
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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