One more day

I feel a loss for words, writing-wise. At least extraneous words which are usually spinning around inside my brain most days like a hyper puppy chewing on this word or that word or syntax, squeaky toys. I don’t believe in writer’s block – I think that’s a crock of shit. When our minds are quiet it’s for a reason. There’s always something to write. Write a word. Write a sentence. Write. Writers who complain of writer’s block aren’t listening to themselves – at least that’s what I think.
It’s 14 degrees here this morning and all I can think about is sun and warmth and getting home when I get home. I’m not going to worry about flights and planes and snow. There’s a few people I wish I could take with me – actually a lot of people I wish I could take with me – but perhaps I already am in some small way, these people who have shaped me who claim a freckle on my skin or a vessel, a breath. The bad ones I’ll give a hair on a mole. But we are shaped by those we love and for that I’ll take my whole body on a journey with them.