It's 530 in the am, and I should be in bed because sleep the last few nites has been rather hit or miss. I know it's bound to catch up with me sooner or later, but it just wasn't happening. I want to be curled up in bed, trying to make up for lost time. Something isn't letting me.
So I get this bright idea to make my way down to the shop and get some work done, but then I don't want to do it. I cruise around facebook for a bit (mine and Avenue's), reply to a few emails and messages and book a band, watch a video and read a poem...but I just don't want to put in the time for me.
Two days strong, and that desire to do it, but I'm like that old proverb: If there's a writer alone in the forest, is he still a writer?
Not that I don't already love the feedback I'm getting from you faithful followers, but where's the love, really? If I can't even love it for what it is, what good is it? I've got Han's delusions of grandeur every which way I pilot this thing except that I can't get the ship off the ground, let alone get the hyperdrive to work right. I could go on all morning with Star Wars metaphor...
Here I am, though, puttering away, hopefully a bit more streamlined than the last post because I can't bear to be not good. I need to write. I just have to. If you only knew the hemming and hawing I've been doing these last few weeks alone, you'd be hard-pressed to believe that this isn't some ghost writer working on this page.
But I've got a ghost of a chance.
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