It’s Thursday. Of a long week. If I didn’t know, I could tell what day it is.

The Muzzies are here.

It’s that state of mind, of energy, that no night of good sleep can repair. The what-is-that-ache? state. The condition of I-know-there’s-a-good-idea-in-there-somewhere. The Land of Meh, of numb, of covering one’s head with a pillow.

The last two evenings at the page have been proof of its approach. The stalking mood has stayed perched on my shoulder, tapping my head, distracting me at every opportunity. It hasn’t wanted me to offer my attention to anything, much less letting me track from one sentence to the next.

Where do they come from, these Muzzies? Why do they exist at all?

It may be the heart’s listening to the anguish that echoes in the air, the collective pain from that tornado-raked town 60 miles away. It may be the hangover of worry about the water rising behind the house on the river. It may be that my confidence is low, right now. It may be bio-rhythms. It may be that I’ve been at these chapters so long that I can recite them by heart. It may be that I’m just chompin’ to get to some meaty and challenging stuff ahead. It may be the tough awareness that this book is chapters away from being finished. Hell, it may just be Thursday—and no more reason than that.

Coffee can’t fix it. Kind words from friends can’t. This is the eye of the mind staring at the blank walls on the inside of the head. The endless game of mental computer solitaire. Dishrags, if they had emotions, must feel like this.

The Muzzies. The place of not-so-good. Not much of anything. I’ll choose to think of it as a Recovery Room for the spirit. It’s all I can do.

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