Well, it’s time to write something, or something. It’s time to write something and find the words. This should be an easy enough task. I don’t have to worry too hard or about too much, and my day has been good. It has been easy. So all I need to do is let the thoughts flow and see where they lead, if they do indeed lead anywhere at all.

So why is nothing coming to me?

I think I just need to warm up a bit. Get myself ready. Get myself prepared. Just churn out the words, the meaning and the intent, and it will all come into view. It will all become clear. It will become all mine and mine alone, and I will find it and summon it and then… everything will make sense. I will find the words. Something will come to me and it will reveal itself in the most spectacular of ways. It will do that, I will be here. I will be amazed, or something. I will be overwhelmed. I will have finally found what it is that I find within everything, and nothing will be as it always was, sitting to the side and a little to the left, behind and looking forward. Looking forward into an endless dream. And endless field of ideals and solitude, and perhaps fun and joy and ebullient activity, and jubilation abound, over yonder, toward the tomorrow, and always underneath the sea when underneath the sea, and above it when above it, and ever forward, ever forward, and finding where it all lies and should make sense when everything is in ruins around us.

But yeah, I’ve got nothing. I’m tired. I’m stretched out. I’m running thin, but there is something here. There is something returning to me. There is something within my hands, and I can feel it. I can turn it around and rotate it, and it is like a stone, floating there. Floating here. Finding its way to my heart, revealing itself. The words are coming and they are coming at a rate that I cannot discern. Don’t know if that’s due to coming too slow or coming too fast. In any event, they are here. Or over there, but they are coming here, slowly, speedily, with some sort of purpose, and they fill my vision. They fill my space and they harmonise and tell me that it’s all okay. That perhaps, even though I’ve written so much crap, it hasn’t been, and that’s a good thing… maybe. Who knows. I don’t. I know I don’t. I’m okay with that.

So let’s just say that nothing comes to me by the time this bit of writing ends. I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know where I’ll go. I know I’ll have to keep trying, but only for so long as sleep will arrive and once that gets here, it’s over the game for the day and I’ll get some rest, but not enough.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:17:45

Rusty in a way, but also not. And a bit silly, too.

Written at home.