This week was supposed to be 'non-educational' and thought-provoking and personal. But the words didn't come— well they did, 3,000 of them, just not in the correct order.
Not because there's nothing to say—but because there's too much I haven't made sense of yet. The ideas are scattered, the rhythm is off, every sentence feels like it's wearing someone else's clothes, every word is misspelled, and every emotion feels borrowed.
I tried. I pulled out old drafts, entertained bold openings, and whispered dramatic endings into my coffee. I built a web page. I tore it down. I stitched together poetry and critique and waited for a spark— it never lit.
So this week, I'm not writing to inform, to provoke, or even to finish anything. I'm writing to say: I'm here. Tired, maybe. Quiet, sure. Uninspired, a little. But still here.
And I hope, that's enough.