You ever have that feeling of uncertainty? Kinda like you know there is something there, hiding behind the mundane, buried in the confusion, just trying to break through the cloudy darkness that is your mind? That’s me these days.

I want to write. I want to tell my stories, but I can’t. The voices have stopped. They aren’t talking, hell… they aren’t even whispering a syllable.

Between the pandemic caging me in and the political climate, my mind races with things that have nothing to do with anything constructive.  Sure, I have a blip here and there of a story, but nothing that ever comes to light. All I can do is sit and hope and wait for the voices to return. That my muse decides my brain is worthy of the words.

Until then…. This is it. Half musing of life. Pitiful reaches for something not there. Whining about the nothingness in my creative soul.

I’m empty!

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