The writer has a case of the greys today.
A case of the What-day-is-it?s. Of Pre-Holiday-itis. Of Winter Solsticeity.
A case of what is wrong with the damned heating system and where is the guy who’s supposed to be coming to fix it?s.
A case of invisibility; of Itty-Bittyness, tiny inside herself.
A case of Why isn’t the world beating a path to my door? Fever.
A case of cabin fever…and a case of The Sits and Stares—clearly a case of schizophrenia.
A case of the Solitaries. A case of Wanna-Be. A case of Wanna-Be-Somewhere/Somone Else. A case of “The writing is going well, so why are you so screwed up about it?”. A case of Who Am I Kidding? Of wanting and not. Of inertia and energy. Of despair and joy.
Okay. Okay. It’s a self-curing ailment. The prescriptions are exactly what’s causing the complaints: the eagle calling out back. The work. A dose of the very same grey that’s bothering me, swallowed whole, without sugarcoating. They eye on the inner prize.
The writer is tired of whining. The writer is tired of wanting to.