There is something about February that is not conducive to writing. A month that opens with James Joyce's birthday and has been known as the month of the dead seems to itch with creativity. Instead all I do is sit here and stare at blank sheets of paper contemplating intelligent things to write, then downgrading down from intelligent to mildly witty to now hoping to hit on something that might moderately arrive as a fluff piece.
Perhaps it does not help that I have, of late, become addicted to online video game playing and/or perhaps it is because it has been too cold to leave the apartment and have new experiences. Regardless this is becoming a bit of an issue.
It's a disease, a virus. A need to imagine the words that should show up. To see threads of ideas that one wishes to see and then not being able to write about them. It is... vexing...
No more so than for you, of course, dear readers, who not only don't have anything to read from us, but then when there is something to read from us it is terrible.
More is to come and today is the final day of February. Something needs to start picking up. Otherwise... shit, it's the fucking Ides of March. Bastards...
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1 comment:
did you know that the littlest rew was actually born on the ides of march?
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