I'm tired. I feel like I've been slaying dragons all day. From the weather to the traffic to all the people in my office, nothing seems to be cooperating. I'd go home early, but I took a half-day off yesterday, so it hardly seems fair to run away again, especially when the time off didn't seem to improve my disposition any. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow there's a game, and I have tickets in hand.
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.
Comments