Cleaning the Attic
Try a new drinks recipe site
Stretch of the Imagination
Today started out so promising--I thoroughly enjoyed
reading John's diary, I chatted at length with my sister,
little Mia slept in, the dogs were quiet, the internet
wasn't disconnecting. Everything was right and, then, it
set in, the doldrums. Due in part because of lack of
sunshine and, due in part to my insistence on reliving the
past--the good past when words came easily and I could
write and get published and poetry--how I miss my poetry.
But those days are gone and I must learn to be content
right where I am.
It's an embarassment though to write like this, all drab
and boring. But, perhaps, if I write subpar long enough,
better words will filter in, better ideas, better
paragraphs. I can only live with hope that this medication
and this illness haven't permanently altered my brain
capacity to write. Writing is the only thing I've ever felt
passionate about, other than Christianity, and I miss the
passion, I miss the fire, the enthusiasm, the stretch of
But my mind lies silent; it no longer runs deep.