Man damn it’s nice outside. Too nice for the purple mohair and corduroy I unearthed and pulled on in honor of fall. I love fall with the crispness that smells and feels clean. It’s too warm out to be a typical fall day. Like it’s trying to do a last blast thing: remember this come January.
I went out and spent Grant on art supplies last weekend. It must be time to get creative again. I’ve been off the track for a while. Not writing, or drawing, or painting, or anything recently. I haven’t even been reading. It’s like I got all caught up in work and nothing. I don’t know what I’m doing with my spare time anymore. I know I have it. There are hours at night that have become wasted as I sit in front someone else’s T.V. I am there for proximity which is ok, I guess, but not productive. I haven’t felt the need to be. Have I lost the creative flare? Have I become dull over night? Well, it’s been a gradually slowing thing. I need inspiration. For some reason I can’t write about the love of my life. It all seems so trite and forced. I’m very critical of writing towards him. He’d probably read it, get it, and critique it. Sure it’s what you want (most of it) but I’m not used to it.
I want to write, and I want him to read it, and I want him to critique it and think “hmm not too shabby”
and there is my block.