Blank Canvas

I want to write. I’m dying to write.

To be funny, witty, profound, insightful. To grow, think, smile, and laugh.

And yet, all I am greeted with is a blank and empty imagination.

What am I lacking? Fodder for the imagination or fodder for the soul? Both?

Is it because a status quo life doesn’t warrant anything to write about? It’s pointless writing about the bygone past or the unforeseeable future. And what can one say or write about a non-existent present?

Writing about current events or issues that I feel strongly about, even that seems pointless once pen is put to paper, or in keeping with the times, cursor to url.

B-L-A-N-K has become my middle name. :-(

Tired of this! Need creative juices to flow again! Or was it just a short-lived spurt? Just like my life and my attitude? Everything in fits, starts, and short bursts that are too good to last?

Instead, why can’t I get tired of whining and moaning about this hole I’ve dug myself into? All I have to do is stand up and shove the sand aside. Instead sitting pretty seems to have gotten real comfy. Life has become a beanbag…unable to get outta this comfort zone.

Push. Kick. Shove. Just words right now, not actions. Hmmm…state of inertia. That’s the dominating phase at the moment.

Halp!! Of course...I just wrote...I could rinse and repeat! :P