The change of seasons has me all stirred up. I'm the alarm that won't stop going off. The lighter that won't catch and burn. That ache in your shoulder that's not quite enough to send you running for the pills, but enough to make you moan "fuck" when you move a certain way.
My old therapy aka writing eludes me. Hateful muse.
I miss writing but can't latch on to a thought long enough or securely enough to mine it for anything meaningful or even funny. Dig deeper? Bite me. If I don't will most of my thoughts to glance off me like baby taps, I'd morph into a glowing ball of fury.
And as fun as that sounds to the casual observer? No.
My new nickname is already The Door Slammer.
Even so, I'm going to show up here and get my chops back. I cannot keep not writing and expect anything to change, right? Come on. Convince me. Or don't bother because I am pretty hard headed. In my hands, stubborn becomes a whole new weapon.