Itty bitty tiny small post today. As itty bitty tiny and small as I feel.

Inevitably, the moment comes in which we stall in mid-air. The test of ourselves is whether we glide or plummet from there.

Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar; a chair is just a chair, a city is a just city, a job is just a job.

We shuffle restlessly in the cattle pens of our heads, seeing the abattoir at the end of the chute. Sometimes we keep our focus on our own greener pastures.

These moments must come, to keep us aware of our balance in the world. Perhaps they’re the product of body chemistry. Or mass coronal ejections. Or the hidden-bad juju of others. They’re not easy. But they pass.

All days are not sunny. Not even when the sun is out. In this brief moment of “stale, flat and unprofitable”, remembering who we are—the writer we are—is essential. We must continue to know that,  even in this funkhead, we remain able to pluck intriguing notes out of the air. We remain aware that in an hour, a day, the cloud will part.

Let others be small around us. In ourselves, for ourselves, we paint towers of light.