Thursday, January 24, 2008


I'm not constipated in the literal sense...although it is in the literal sense. I have this craving to write right now, I have freelance deadlines looming, thoughts swelling inside my brain, and I just can't find the words. There's too much to say. Or there's nothing to say. Or there's too much to say that I don't want to share. Or there's too much I want to share that I can't compartmentalize properly into neat readable folders and subfolders of paragraphs, sentences and words.

Maybe it's because I'm content. Maybe it's because I'm a little stressed out. Maybe it's because I'm content that I'm a little stressed out. Maybe I need to feel the pressure. Maybe there's just a little too much pressure on things I don't really feel like doing right now. Maybe I'm feeling a bit anxious about [thing I don't want to jinx].

The other day, I was standing on a street corner near Astor Place waiting for the light to change so I could cross, and I started daydreaming and completely zonked out. When I came to, the light had changed from green back to red and the people who were sharing the corner with me had shuffled past me and were halfway down the block. This made me feel silly, and strangely happy.



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