Monday, October 21, 2013

muted




I can't lie:  it's an effort to write, these days.  My whole person feels drawn in, silent, increasingly put off by the noise of the television, the radio, the unending online chatter.  Writing here is a mystery.  Not so much an aversion to communication; I don't even know what to communicate right now.

There is a slowly solidifying possibility that my time alone at home is drawing to end - that I could be working, soon.  I should be blazing through the hours I have.  Taking care of paperwork, filing, mending, organizing, marking off those last projects still stubbornly stuck on my list.  I should be writing, drawing, endlessly.  I should be climbing that hill.

All I want to do is curl up and read in the silence.  Or cook.  Which - yes - is downright crazy coming from me.  I can't explain it.  I am feeling just fine, in general.  Just fine, just humming at the lowest frequency.  No bother.

Not to worry.  This post right here - this is working through it.  I'm working through it.  Head down, eyes on my own paper, but most certainly working through it.




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