I am not talking to me.

The current chapter is a puzzle of notes, its pieces laid end to end in their approximate fit. But the pieces won’t come together. Concentration is a casualty of the season.

The agency’s business picks up precipitously at this time of year. I come home from work tired, without an extra ounce of brain power to spare. As for the rest of my condition of  blotto-brain, the holidays are to blame. And not.

My packages have long been chosen, wrapped and mailed away. The pet-sitter has been contacted. For the rest, I am victim of my ever-habit—to be always where I will be next, not where I am now. A flight to the UK is just days away. So my brain is there. There’s packing to do. Straightening, vacuuming, litter-box cleaning. Tired nights don’t give writing much runway to sail imagination into the air.

In writerly terms, my inner Santa is stuck in the chimney. My personal carolers are flat. My dreidel won’t spin. I’m not writing.

I’m trying to, believe me. I’m trying to think. I write paragraphs, write them differently and read them indifferently. I just don’t have the steam to care much. The days of being swept away with excitement have become casualties of the season, erased from my personal holiday wish list a until I return.

I’ll deal with it.

Pining is good for one’s character.

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