Perhaps

The idea of writing this day feels more like an act of procrastination. It comes from having a number of ideas on the brain and an inability to sort through them, to see which might be most appealing to waste ink over.

There are many political ruminations I could consider, but they are like chicken scat on an egg farm and I don’t feel like dirtying my spirit any further than necessary. Worse yet is the fact that though numerous, they all have the same outcome.

Perhaps another day.

Recently I read two stories from my dear friend, Jeanie French. They were tales of both having been a child, long ago, and being an adult for years since.

Both returned me to where I’d like to be — at least on paper — sharing memories more than opinion, love and not anger at the current insanity of this world. That is if I am to presume it is the world gone mad and not myself.

Further, I have misplaced my ability to make an impression. The idealist in me has wandered away — exploiting neither his imagination and forsaking his mind — filling the dangerous blank page with trivial musings.

Perhaps another day — jus’ not this day.