Last week, I could sit down and type for hours. Tonight, I would rather watch re-runs of “The Big Bang Theory” on TBS.
I had been writing with angst, but its omnipresence has grown tired and I feel fatigued.
Maybe it is the extra energy that I muster daily to enter the workplace, or perhaps it is the time change, but I am dragging through the late evenings and early mornings (the only times that I have to write).
Earlier today, a patient said to me that I was “interfering with nature”; I found his words poetic, but they have since fallen flat, failing to conjure up thoughts or subjects for writing as they would have only a week ago.
I am left to write without purpose, sharing my tangental thoughts as a mostly anonymous poster on a stripped down and simple blog on the internet.
I write because I should, because I need to (even if I don’t have anything particularly profound to say). I write while my cat licks her loins, the computer hums and the television chirps alone downstairs, speaking only to the dog, who finds little value in its entertainment. The dog instead would rather lie on the floor, where he had licked up my daughter’s vomit earlier this evening after she had just finished feeding from my wife’s ample breasts, which will again resemble flapjacks in another four months.
For the sake of my limited readership, I hope I have a better day tomorrow.