Procrastination Station

This isn’t the beginning; that was about 35 years ago. This is a weak attempt at motivation. I downloaded word press in September. That was the worst month of my life thus far.

I didn’t do a thing except download the app. I realized today that I didn’t even make an account, or a log in, or open it. I wrote some on paper. God only knows what that says. I should too someday, and possible all of us. Yet, it may be much to full of crazy for viewing.

A jumble of letters wrapped up in sentences running on in and around themselves, oozing with pain disquised as anger. The soft leather cover binds them like a straight jacket in a padded room, without light.

I came here to find freedom to say whatever I feel I need to, with the security that no one is reading it. At least, not the general audience of the book of faces. I created this space to bounce my words around before and as they fit into some messy work of fiction, or possibly distorted history. I think I hope someone does read it. Right? Isn’t that the point?

As of now, I have no direction in writing. This long road is full of bad poetry and sloppy prose. It’s a head full of ideas switching off and on, forgotten and remembered, cycling but rarely in ink anymore.

It’s time to be my own muse.