Write. Write. Write.

Today was going to be a lonely needy writing day, I knew it all day, I knew it in the morning, when I felt the stinging urge to post something, also to fill the piercing gap to my two-day old last entry, I knew at noon, when the tingling of that urge would not let me work without distraction,  and I knew it in the afternoon, when I couldn’t salvage an anecdote to recount, some wisdom to impart, or a product to report from the mundanity of a rather eventless day to sate that urge, and I know it now, as I aimlessly type desperately attempting to quiet that painful urge.

And today hasn’t been that eventless, not on the national level, quite the contrary, an action-packed day really, possibly shaping the political and general outlook for this country, some admittedly unable to decipher its signals, others reading ominous signs into it, some still optimistic, and yet others simply dismayed and apathetic. And I, today, beyond sometimes alarmed observation, seem immune to engagement or emotional investment in the current affairs – whether that be due to bottomless hopelessness or groundless hopefulness is only for time to tell.

Today I remain sheltered and calm and untouched within my personal sphere, watching a sunflower seedling grow and tending to my plants, babysitting my niece and driving her home, working on a project  I believe in and enjoy, planning a spring garden and a road trip, and writing away my urge to write.


3 responses to “Write. Write. Write.

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