Is it the head-pressure caused by an approaching storm? The summer of earth-falling-into-the sun heat and too many days shut indoors against it? Is it the difficult, highly technical chapter I’m working on? Is it the transition between homes and its attendant chaos? Is it the want of affirmation as I search for a job, wanting somebody to recognize the writer I am?
Is it all those things?
Days like this, I wake tired. I want to shut the blinds and sit in a self-made twilight…do laps in the tub until my fingers get pruny…stare at walls. Days like this, and the empty page stretches out like a football field before me. Deciding on the choices offered up by the keyboard are like trying to catch hail in a teaspoon. I want to yelp into the self-made silence, just to break the quiet. I want someone to tell me who I am.
The good thing about a blank page is that anything can be written there. The bad thing is that anything can be written there. And guess what? There is absolutely no difference between the second-guessing that builds a better story and the one that tears it down. I want there to be. But no.
Those reminders of how good my life actually is? Tell it to somebody else. The consolation that I have my health. Blow it out your nose. I’m sulking. I’m uncertain. The blinking cursor dares me; mocks me. Sometimes even gratitude isn’t enough. Sometimes, delight is nowhere to be found.
And the next five minutes? That’s the thing. At any minute, anything could happen. That’s what makes even days like these so extraordinary.