Ya know, it would have been a good day to stay at home. I feel like a left fielder trying to catch fly balls, the calls have come in so fast. So far I've answered "Why can't I send an e-mail to so-and-so's Sprint phone? It says to contact my system administrator..." and "Why am I getting e-mails for this other person?" Must be e-mail day! Haven't had one of those in awhile - I'd forgotten what it was like. The third request was to create a shared calendar in Outlook - yep, looks like e-mail day. Makes me almost glad that it's also meeting day.
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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