Nothing, Really.

I’ve been in one of those slumping moods lately — when I feel like something or someone is bothering me – things are weighing on my mind – but when someone asks me how I am, or if something’s the matter — I don’t know how to respond. Because it’s nothing, it’s everything, it’s things that are bothering me perhaps more than they should; it’s finding a new apartment, it’s moving out of this town, it’s money, it’s work, it’s wondering what the next steps are and nerves about upcoming life events, and nerves about knowing life events should happen but they’re not happening, and I don’t think that’s at all fair.

However, all this doesn’t amount to a lot of writing — I’ve been sort of blocked for the month of August. Too much is going on, and not enough at the same time. I’d like to write more fiction and have all kinds of thoughts on all kinds of subjects, but I’ve reached a deadlock by which I can’t seem to get those thoughts down in any conducive order. Both tragic re-tellings and the current re-living of that feeling of supposed “unrequited love” have me left with only tiny, airy strands of nothing at all.

This is what summer does; it is a calm but empty plain that offers a very clear, concise view of everything, while offering nothing to be navigated, guessed or anything about which to be truly intrigued or amazed or surprised by.



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