I have nothing to say. Not one minute after deciding that I was going to try to write something that was at least publishable, if not marketable. And I find that I have nothing to say. An awful thing for me. Here is what I understand about me: I am my thoughts. The greatest compliment came from my father who said that I did not see the world the way everyone else does and that I had a beautiful mind.
If I have nothing to say, then I am an empty vessel. I am all to familiar with the fate of empty wine and beer bottles. And I am not even being refilled. My wife asked me just yesterday why I am not reading any more. I have no idea. I am not depressed and yet I am more separated from life than I have been in ages.
Changes are on the horizon. Maybe they will lead me to plug back in. Maybe the new things will allow life to flow into me and then onto the page. I feel stunted. I feel like I am less than I was and less than I should be.
It will change. A strange thought will hit me and I will stream it onto this blog and those of you who read this will soak it up and laugh at the audacity or scratch your head at the funny or grow angry at the simplicity. Or you won't react at all. And the ones of you who are the least intelligent will not even wonder why the words have no effect or why the world is so small and colorless. The rest will be aghast at the arrogance here.
And then think, "Well, you know how he is."
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