Since my writing has come to a halt, like the free lunch, or the water flow in the Murray, I've found I've been experiencing a new emotion. I've been wandering the house, feeling unsettled, fiddling with pens, trying to read, walking, heading out into the garden, heading back in, standing, staring, sweeping, cleaning, stopping, looking. Not even the contemplation of the destruction of the earth has distracted me. My, my, my, I thought yesterday, is this boredom? OMG! (shake head in disbelief) Well, if it is, I don't like it, let me tell you.
Is this what the dumbos talk about?
I've had such thoughts of, what am I going to do today? Oh, it's only 5pm - no daylight savings plays havoc with perception. The days going slow. I've got nothing to do? But the real kicker was the last couple of days, I've been thinking about what it would be like to go back to work. Ah!
Where do I sign up for therapy?
I think I have to take up smoking again. No, not cigarettes, but, as we all know, that's what it leads to. Kill me? At this point, all I can say is, good!
Where before - read with a little mary-jane - I could take one word and lovingly turn it into a story for the afternoon, even if it turned out to be ordinary. It didn't really matter, that's what re-wrting is for. Now, the well is dry. I've got nothing. Zip. I don't like this at all.
Grumble, grumble, grumble! He stomps off to the kitchen looking for food.
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