the cupboard is bare.
the pen is dry.
the keyboard is still. mostly.
this past week, i stayed up way too late. i mean, waaaaaay too late. too many days in a row. and i’ve gotten up early the past four days in a row. like wake up at 5:45 early. after going to bed at 2 or 3am. not a good decision on the heels of six weeks of lingering illness.
so i’m not only empty. i’m stoopid.
three or four hours sleep on four consecutive days has left me permanently groggy. i have long-term blah. my brain is in slow motion. sheesh.
and my creative juice has been reduced to the sludge at the bottom of the carton.
over the years, writing has become a joy in my life. it’s cathartic. it’s therapeutic. i look forward to sitting down with my laptop. life lessons jump out everywhere i look. i’m always carrying around a list of things i want to write about. this week? zippo.
this afternoon, i started to come out of my funk. brain cells are doing some light-weight stretching. i’m making myself write.
have you ever known what you wanted to do, but just couldn’t make yourself do it? have you ever been a place where you could see where you needed to be, but just couldn’t get there? is there something in your life that needs to change, but you can’t bring yourself to get on the road to transformation?
sometimes there’s just no substitute for getting up and making some forward movement. no matter how small.