In a melancholy grump today. So I’m going to ramble. Indulge me, please.

No reason for the mood…I love rainy days. Looking at me, you’d see no outward sign of a flatlined spirit. But I’m looking up at the soles of my own shoes right now.

Oh, of course I know what it is. Don’t you? It’s the book, the book, the book. Everything is, these days, weeks, months. I speak into my head and only echoes come back.

Tired of the angst. Tired of the longing. Tired of kissing the eyelids of my spirit and waiting for love to come back. Tired of the limbo between The End and The Beginning. No place, no page, to put the feelings. At least, none that I can recognize right now.

Maybe it’s all a big battery pack, the writer’s head-and-heart. A place to store all the days like these until they’re needed at some unknowable moment in the next gazillion tomorrows. A place to try to keep the joy, when it comes; a thing so much harder to hang on to.

No inspiration right now? There’s the challenge: to feel when there is nothing to feel. Face down that mood. Punch it in the eye. And let it bleed.

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