Don’t want to post today.

Don’t want to pack any more—don’t want to see one more damned box.

Don’t want to load up my sadly overworked little car.

Don’t want to realize how much flotsam in the house that survived the “shoulda tossed” of the last move.

Don’t want to wait for the mover to come.

Don’t want to leave here. Don’t want to complain about leaving here.

Don’t want to forget anything. Or worry about remembering all there is to remember.

Don’t want to read my own writing. Don’t want to stop. Don’t want wanting others to get reading as much as I do.

Don’t want to think.

Don’t want to worry.

Don’t want to be considering my flaws.

Don’t want to be negative.

Don’t want to wait to start another book. Or to find the deeper meaning of one.

Don’t want to wait to try to get these two sold.

We are the breed of person who runs in two directions when confronted with “must.” We run toward it with that in-bred sense of obligation. We run like hell away.

That’s the problem with these thumb-twiddling days of limbo between preparation and move: too much thinking. Too much wanna. And too much don’t.

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