 |
| No. Not that kind of mush. |
No, not the dog sled term.
My brain feels like mush, at least all the parts of it associated with
putting letters together to make words and stacking words upon words to make
some semblance of thought.
Yep, mush.
Every scrap of creativity I’ve ever had has been wrung out into Writhe
today. (Me, exaggerate? Never.)
Most of the day I’ve felt like a kindergartener playing with a pile of
putty, trying to make something somebody other than my Mommy will recognize as
art.
Yes, while the world whirls by and time scurries on, Chloe Stowe has
her head stuck in putty (which, let me tell you, never comes out of your hair)…
I feel a moment of insecurity and self-doubt coming on.
Shhh. Maybe if we’re all very quiet and don’t make a sound, the moment
will trudge on by us without notice?
*silence*
*stillness*
Damn. It’s still here.
Alright, we’ll simply ignore it. Let it lurk and mope and pout and
cajole all by its little lonesome in the corner. I’m not going to look at it.
I’m not going to listen to it.
Are you?
If “yes,” tell me what it says, ok?
*lol*
I told you.
Mush.
Before my oatmealishness (Wow! Now isn’t that a word? Bet you won’t
find that at Merriam-Webster.com) seeps into your corpuscles, I will excuse you
all from the rest of today’s stupidity.
Go! Enjoy your life.
Me and my mush are going to sponge out for a while, hopefully gain a
little structure, a little definition, a better color than waxy beige.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe and Mush
No comments:
Post a Comment