Sunday, January 9, 2011

I am writing this because it is easier than writing. I look forward all day to writing, like, I get ideas, I get phrases, I get excited. I want to lunge for my keyboard. And then life gets in the way and then I finally can sit down to make my dreams come true and the excitement is nowhere to be found and my fingers are dead like fish, dead like red-winged blackbirds and dead like nine year old girls who went to watch a congresswoman speak. (too soon, i'm sorry)  I dig deep, trying to find the spark again. And I can’t find it even though I know it’s there. I hate this. I will walk away now. I will do other things like make brussell sprouts or fold laundry or lament the greasy state of my windows and maybe find the spark within those things. (Sometimes I can find it there.) But in the meantime, I’m wasting time on writing what is easy—this—instead of what is hard: that. I want to drink red wine right now. I want to pull a blanket over my head and sleep for a while. In a hot room. In the daytime. Okay, bye.

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