The Morning Dew
Coherence. As elusive as ever. Putting ideas into writing as difficult as ever. Picking a topic and putting it to paper seems easy at 3 in the morning, but now that I'm staring foolishly into the void, I may as well be preparing for a trip to Mars. Of course, the cold doesn't help, nor does the ongoing demand for parental vigilance. Excuses all, but I feel they're of the grounded type. The others, my old friends, lofty and spurious at best. From Suburban to Urban to Suburban again. Full fucking circle. My hope with moving back to the burbs was to that I would make use of time, this time; to stare out the window only as a method for collecting thought, a brief interlude that would transition easily back into the work. Instead, I lose myself in the trees, the neighbors' houses, the distant sounds of a children's soccer game...I come up empty. My original intent melts away, almost nightmarishly. The baby sleeps on the couch; the clock is ticking. Tick Tock. Tick