I’ve been waiting all this time to be something I can’t define.

The Format “The First Single (You Know Me)” Interventions and Lullabies

I should write.

But, I can’t write.

I just worked two doubles and I have another one tomorrow.  I barely have time to change work attire and get a little food in my belly, let alone for creativity.  Not to mention, mentally pulling myself together from one extroverted job to another, without the much required introverted recovery. I don’t have the time and when I do I don’t have the energy.  I have been on my feet this entire day, my steps will confirm, and I’m broken.  Even the thought of pen to paper further wears me out.

So, I don’t write.


I should write.

But, I can’t write.

I still haven’t cleaned my apartment, and let’s be honest.  How productive could I really be, constantly distracted by the clutter?  If I buckled down and do it, what will it take, an hour, maybe two?  Tops.  But, while I’m at it, when was the last time I really cleaned.  I’m talking hands and knees cleaning.  I don’t even want to think about it, which means it’s been too long.  Writing “to do” lists, loosely counts, right?  And now that the list is complete, I deserve to bask in that accomplishment.  I’ll actually clean tomorrow.

So, I don’t write.


I should write.

But, I can’t write.

Not until I do my civic duty as an American citizen, keeping abreast on the happenings in Washington, terrifying as they may be.  Sure, my mental health seems to decline in dangerous direct proportion to the amount of news I watch.  But, I fear not watching will render me uninformed.   Until before I know it, I’ve lost hours, in utter disbelief that this is, in fact, real life, to the repeated take on the same nonsensical 4 second clip or the latest tweet. Disappointed as I may be in 45, he’s at least blasting out 140 characters.  Meanwhile, I haven’t gotten to one.

So, I don’t write.


I should write.

But, I can’t write.

I’m too tired.  Too stressed.  Too hungry.  Too angry.  Too busy.  Too sad.  I have too many ideas.  I don’t know where to begin.  None of my ideas are any good.  I don’t know what I’m doing.  I should study some more.  No one will like it.  What’s the point?  It’s already been said before, and better.  What difference does my voice make?  Who am I to think I deserve this?

I’m afraid.

So, I don’t write.


I should write.  “But, I can’t write.”  So, I don’t write …

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