I’ve been here for hours.
My head feels stuffed like the arms of my chair.
Puffy and tightly bound.
Nothing’s getting in. Nothing’s getting out.
Thinking is an effort.
Hell, everything’s an effort.
Even writing.
I don’t mean building stories out of connected ideas.
Carefully constructing sentences with proper syntax, grammar and spelling,
Or selecting words that best express and enfold layers of meaning.
No, I mean the physical act of writing.
Making the pen form letters,
By moving my hand with some semblance of coordination.
Scribbling something legible, rather than lopsided, blue blobs.
My cat sits at my feet, watching with a puzzled expression.
Does she sense my frustration?
Cats don’t get frustrated so how could she sense it in me?
She meows loudly.
“C’mon!” she cries, “You’re not doing anything productive! Feed me!”
I ignore her, trying to concentrate.
Her meows become increasingly strident,
But I must carry on. I must make the effort.
Who is it that said that eighty percent of life is just showing up?
Well “showing up” is making my head hurt.
It’s hard to breathe.
Owww!
To add injury to her many insults, she just bit me.
All right. Fine. I’ll feed you.
Then at least one of us will be happy.
Never mind writing, showing up is hard!
Same time tomorrow, then?
