I have no words.
I have a theory that the more real I become, the harder words become to find. How do normal people write? How unreal do you have to be for words to flow like sunshine down the side of an ice floe?
I’m not sure, but I think this reality thing is way overrated.
I got a day job. It was part of an experiment to see if I could become Real. The day job, however, has now consumed my life and, in effect, become my reality. This is no way to be real. I come home too tired to write and my creativity is sucked down a drain with dirty dishwater.
And I have no words.
Sometimes I still think clever thoughts. I still have a moment when I ignore the pressing in of the “must do” list and just bask in the warmth of a moment of clarity and vision. Then an alarm beeps or a break ends and the moment runs away, as flighty as a skittish deer in a forest.
And it takes my words.
How do I set aside a space for this side of me, for the me that is fragile and nebulous and vital and so much more real than reality itself? How do I protect it from bone-numbing weariness and apathy? How do I not just binge-watch hours of television and comment on every item on social media because it’s easier?
And find my words?
I don’t have the answer yet but, because I am awesomesauce in Figment form, I will have an answer. I will even share my answer with you.
I just need words.
Maybe tomorrow. Today, an alarm is going off and it’s time to play dwarf (I choose to be Happy, even though I feel like Grumpy or Sleepy) and hi-ho off to the mines. Maybe I’ll find a jewel while I work.
Maybe I’ll find words.