I began to scheme what I might write, last night for this morning. That then, proceeded to implode upon itself. Life. The way it goes. Etc.
The drive isn’t gone. Just different. Changed. Evolved, or the like. Goes with time. With age. Or so I’ve been told. And so, now, I might start to say more often myself. Almost three decades. Just enough to know for sure about how little you know. Which I guess means I know something. …
I don’t do enough, right? There’s stuff to be done, and here I go again, not doing. Guilt ridden in a world for me to maybe be a beam of better instead of all this not that I am.
I didn’t get immediately out of bed. I stayed there for a short while, listening to the rain. Lingering. Between worlds. Looking as the blue hum of hue, cased in right angles, snuck out from behind the blinds.