Today it feels like I have nothing to write.
My mind is growing tired.
It wasn’t a bad day.
Not by a long shot.
I listened to the radio.
NPR had a story in honor of Stephen Sondheim’s ninetieth birthday.
For his eightieth birthday.
I took notes on his thoughts for later use.
I went on a hike through the woods.
Over on Vasa Pathway.
With mud and snow still left over from the winter.
I started and finished Elevation.
By Stephen King,
While sitting outside against a concrete slab of a wall.
I took an exam, I read required reading for my courses, I tried to stay up to date on my schedule.
But today I don’t have much else to write.
Nothing that seems like it wouldn’t be forced.
This feels easy to write.
Saying that I have nothing to write.
Isn’t that strange?