Tumbleweeds

I think it's because I have nothing to say.  There was a time when the words came to me with the urgency of someone about to soil themselves.  These days, I don't hold on to thoughts long enough to expand on them once I can write them down.  I sit down to write and fall asleep.  I censor myself.  This is mine and I can do whatever I want but sometimes the adage 'you should always tell the truth, but the truth doesn't always need to be told' applies.  I don't want to create something here that I have to deal with out 'there.'  This is supposed to be my room; the place I can leave underwear on the floor and coffee cups on the nights stand and it only bothers me.  But it's not my room because I made it with glass walls and the act of observing changes the observed.

It's New Year's Eve again.  What. a. year.  Again I am tempted to venture out into the noise to confirm again that it's not my scene.  In an ideal world, I would meet up with some folks and hang out with them long enough to germinate a post.  Being in places I don't want to be brings that out in me.  I just want to escape somewhere and write.  I would leave well before midnight and hang out in my bed under the electric blanket and bring in the New Year writing about the passing one.  In an ideal world.

Maybe I'll see you tonight.  One can hope.