Some mornings, and I suppose this is one of them, the words aren't coming to me. Maybe it's because I was out late last night with a friend and had one too many. Or two too many. Maybe it's because I am effectively sublimating my disdain for some of the shit happening in the office and it's serving to keep me quiet. Most likely, it's just because I'm weary. I've been going pretty hard for a long time, under a lot of pressure, and at the very least I need a day off.
Today would be a great day for that. The sky is a deep blue. The temperature is moderate. As I walked Whiskey alongside the East River this morning, the breeze had just a hint Autumn in it. Nice.
I thought about calling out from work and taking a day. But my o'erweening sense of responsibility chastened me. So here I am. Here I am with nothing to write about.
Some friends tell me that maybe my writing, and my mood, would be better if I did take days off. But I have too much of an austere work ethic for any of that. I am like an old New England farmer. I work come hell or high water.
Writing for me is exercise. There are some days when your muscles ache and your bones creak and your mile times are a good two minutes slower than the day before's. But. You do it. You lace up your shoes and go.
So, with the soft light of a beautiful summer day for illuminate and the whoosh of white noise as the soundtrack of my morning, I write this. I exercise my fingers and get something down.
I know, it sucks.
But I did it.