Nothing to do with anything at all.
I went to the horse races once.
I should probably preface this by saying that this article has nothing to do with the price of tea in China. It really has nothing to do with anything. I mean it. If you, as a reader, want coherence, read elsewhere. I have not been writing lately, something no one pointed out to me, not even my nearest and dearest — which is just fine, because I have not been accountable to anyone but myself. To be kind to myself, I have been fairly good about averaging two blogs per week for several years now, and perhaps I needed a bit of a rest.
But when I say I haven’t been writing, I mean I haven’t even been journaling, nor have I even been writing in my own head, something I tend to do when not actually physically writing in a journal or on a computer. Where there is usually some sort of noise, narration, sentence fragments swirling in my brain, there was only a sort of humming, with an occasional idea raising a head like Punxsutawney Phil, not seeing its shadow, and burrowing deeper underground to slumber some more.
Perhaps I was more depressed due to losing my brother-in-law, due to the ridiculously hot weather, or depressed for no reason at all. Maybe I needed a break from the ceaseless squeaky hamster cage that is typically my mind’s default setting. Whatever the reason or reasons, my creativity well had…
