Every day I tell myself that I ought to write something—whether here or on a scrap of paper somewhere. Why can't I?
Perhaps I am gradually losing my ability to think and feel. I have become somehow stunted, emotionally and cognitively.
I need a clever method of personal renewal. I need an idea. I need something to do.
Yay, you're alive!
ReplyDeleteMaybe you should read some awesome books and then write some papers on them. Finishing papers always makes me feel really good.
Emily
Get. A. Job.
ReplyDeleteTake heart: I'm sure your page will soon be printed.
ReplyDeleteTHE THOUGHT-FOX
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
You should have more casual sex via Craigslist.....
ReplyDeleteCasual Sex!!!!!
ReplyDeleteMy suggestion: travel!
ReplyDelete