hmm.
How oddly pathetic, that I should have so much to say and not say it. I could right pages and pages of poems. I ought to, really. But I'm simply staring at this white screen instead, not thinking, not writing. Not even being.
I've been challenged to write a poem about foolintherain00, that has to include potatoes and the number 42. That ought to be interesting, if I ever get around to writing it.
I feel as if I should be depressed, or at least restless and disatisfied. I'm not, of course. I'm simply here, with no real reason for it. Most likely I'll go to the conference on Thursday and get amazingly inspired to be something great, and wander about with my head in sophisticated dreams for a few weeks.
What a life.
*sings*
It feels like winter
On a perfect summer day
If I can convince my heart to believe my mind
It might just go away...
P.S. I am not tired, and I do not want to climb into my bed and find out that I've been lying to myself. In actuality, I'm probably exhausted.
I've been challenged to write a poem about foolintherain00, that has to include potatoes and the number 42. That ought to be interesting, if I ever get around to writing it.
I feel as if I should be depressed, or at least restless and disatisfied. I'm not, of course. I'm simply here, with no real reason for it. Most likely I'll go to the conference on Thursday and get amazingly inspired to be something great, and wander about with my head in sophisticated dreams for a few weeks.
What a life.
*sings*
It feels like winter
On a perfect summer day
If I can convince my heart to believe my mind
It might just go away...
P.S. I am not tired, and I do not want to climb into my bed and find out that I've been lying to myself. In actuality, I'm probably exhausted.