I have ideas. All day long. I’m especially productive when I’m utterly unable to write them down.
When I’m at my keyboard, I’m blank. There’s no flow. I can feel the edge of that idea I had earlier, like a popcorn hull stick between a tooth and gum, but it’s not budging without some help. Floss. Here goes.
Fall skies are a consolation prize for the death of summer temperatures.
Feet love you best when you let them walk bare across warm sand or free them from high heels and let them rub against warm pavement, even though they know they’ll be returned to their elevated torture chambers within moments.
The best part of yoga is the corpse pose, especially if it comes with a food rub.
I hate the way that being busy crushes my chest and shutters my eyes, funnels my mind.
I dream of a life unscheduled.
The sound of coyotes and the scream of their prey makes me fervently thank god for the walls that protect me from animals far better suited to survival than I am suited. To survival.
Listening to a beautifully written novel hurts my soul because it’s so beautiful and because I will never create anything as beautiful. At least not that I will remember later.