Today, I feel capable of things I want to be capable of. This feeling and my soul are just barely acquaintances. They pass each other sometimes on their morning jogs.
sometimes they see each other on the bus. sometimes at a party. sometimes in some book store.
but they go without meeting for months sometimes, though. they have no commitment to each other. I really want to marry off my soul to this feeling.

Today, I am not a writer. My words are not projecting themselves artfully or naturally. I'm too much of a perfectionist, too worried all the time, too unfocused and preoccupied with whatever there is to be preoccupied at the time to be a writer today.

I miss the moments of pristine clarity I can sometimes find when I'm productive. My mind fogs easily.

There is so much to say about so much in this world, but I just can't seem to find something here right now.
I suppose I
don't
have
anything
to
say
right
now
and
I
am
content
with
being
quiet.