I forgot to write yesterday. Well I didn’t forget. I thought about it, but had nothing to say. Except that I’m tired. Which isn’t new or inspiring or anything other than a feeling. Or a lack of feeling after a long day of tense hope weaving with subtle worry.
So I didn’t write. I broke the streak. But it doesn’t matter. I am writing now.
It’s not poetic, or well thought out. It is just what it is. Letters molded into words. Words braided into sentences. Sentences stacked into paragraphs.
Not sure it means anything and yet it means too much to give away.
I keep thinking about the past like it could be changed.
Like I could rewrite one scene and save everything.
Just give me a pen and I’ll edit my way out of this mess.