I hate it when I’m too tired to write.
When my mind is too filled with the goings on of the day that nothing creative, profound or merely whimsical can break through.
Sure, ideas and word painted images flit in and around my preoccupation
but none are strong enough to break though and show themselves.
having a mind so full.
So full of “stuff” that seems somewhat superfluous now that the day is over and things are “done.” The information inhabiting my brain is now irrelevant but has solidified
into one impenetrable lump.
What needs to be written pings and rings as it rebounds off its shell
but doesn’t make it to the page.
At least not this night.