This writer’s block sucks dirt. I’d rather be outside with a dog, or actually anywhere with a dog. I need a dog.
I’m so uncomfortable. So much painful movement. I don’t know if its because I’m opening, the expansion pulling on the gristle of my flesh grown tough and ropey by life; or if I’m closing, reality crushing down upon all of the dreams and optimism that was just here a minute ago, but are suddenly gone – like my dog.
Anais Nin said that there comes a time when the pain of not blossoming becomes worse than staying bound tightly in a bud.
Or some fucking thing like that.
It all sounds lovely, but she forgot to mention the excruciating time just before the balance tips. The limbo when you’re experiencing both, equally.
Pushing, resisting, neither strong enough to sway the other.
What now, Anais? It must be easy for you to say, you get through it by smoking cigarettes and fucking Henry, by being a tragic drama queen.
It doesn’t matter. I have to get up and go to work, feeling like the dog in the diner. What’s wrong with this picture?
wordstopaige 