I've felt very quiet lately, which isn't terribly rare for my external expressions.
This time it is internal quiet.
A sobriety, a hibernation, a still.
There is a creative shut-down. Instead, I am taking in.
When I cannot write a words, I read.
When I cannot take a photo, I look.
When I cannot fashion an outfit, I naked.
Perhaps I am meant to be listening more,
Perhaps I am too isolated. Blank. Disconnected.
Sometimes speaking well, accurately, freely, casually
Is the hardest damn task I face in the day.
And the challenge of connecting with another human being is daunting enough to keep me in bed.
And then Sunday comes along, and I can sit on the laurels of my well-crafted love, finish a book, forgive myself for crippling introversion, and just feel good.
Oh Sunday, we'd never make it without you.