Blog posts are hard to come by these days. Like a toothache, the idea of writing niggles away at me, occasionally rising to a mixed crescendo of pain and irritation before easing and then disappearing again.
I want to sit down and write, I feel the urge, the desire but I suppress the words – half-formed sentences flash in my brain at the strangest of times; as I’m buckling up in the car, waking me up in the early hours of the morning, when I brush my teeth. Some days words assault me mid-conversation and I have to stop momentarily to gather my thoughts. It’s no wonder people view me as distracted, scatterbrained for that is what my brain is – scattered with words and phrases.
I just haven’t had the energy to sit and force these words into any sort of cohesive arrangement. I seem to be operating at very low power, have been for a while now – perhaps it’s my age, I am , after all, a grandmother now, gray hairs don’t even have the grace to hide from sight, appearing to take pleasure in growing out like antennae from the top of my scalp. My face has taken on a perpetually pinched look as if I’ve just arrived in the door from a five day music festival. There are no creams to deal with this.
My soul is tired, I believe it needs a holiday.
Scandinavia would be nice, I quite fancy seeing the Northern Lights. Fur, ice and fire. Someplace steeped in old legends, gods and bloody battles. Someplace to sort me out. Space, I need space. A place to breathe, to create, to untangle the coiled wires and set down the words. I need to pour them into the purple hardback that mocks me for the half page once or twice a week that has been masquerading as a first draft for the better part of two years.
Still, procrastination, writing about not writing is a step in the right direction, I suppose. One must work with what one is given.
More coffee is required.