Sometimes I Want to Write

Sometimes I want to write something, but I'm not sure if I should because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I want to write about the end of an era, and I want to share about a thing that used to exist in order to commemorate what it meant to me. But unless I am at least equally positive about the new opportunities made possible by the change, I'm worried that I will come across as though I categorically hate the Now or the Nouns involved in bringing the previous era to a close. I might really like the new era, given time—innocent until proven guilty and all that—but I'm reluctant to drive head-on into the future when I can still see glimpses of a pleasant past in my rearview mirror. I want to take a detour down Memory Lane. Perhaps I'll meet you at the corner of Closed Door Rd and Opened Window Ave in a few miles.

Sometimes I'm so unsettled inside that I can't write anything. Conflicting thoughts swirl around in a flurry of unfinished sentences and unsupported arguments. Bits of dialogs I'd like to be having interrupt analysis of situations and events of which I can't make sense. The tiny piece of me still grounded in reality has long since realized I can't think my way through it, but the greater part of the mind is stubbornly fixated on the idea of Sherlock Holmes-ing a discovery and a resolution.

Sometimes when I'm thinking about a thing I want to write but the words aren't making much sense, the white noise in my head gets louder and I slowly slump over onto the couch. I wake to find a cat perched like a mountain goat atop my hip or stretched out like a worm aside my legs.