Sometimes i think i have already written all of my words. I have been prodigal with my talent, squandering it early in my life on diary entries, unfinished short stories, and unnecessarily witty Facebook statuses. I worry that i will spend the rest of my life editing the same thirty or forty poems over and over and blogging about what other people did at work.
I feel empty, drained, squeezed, scraped, dry.
And then i'm in class watching two students present, and M is talking way too slowly and giving far too much detail while K does absolutely everything he can think of short of pulling the fire alarm to get M's attention and signal him to wrap it up. After all, part of their grade is based on the time they take.
And then i'm at home cleaning and Adam is blown up and i'm lighting candles and tattooing my flesh.
And then i'm at the beach with John eating fresh doughnuts and i am overcome with love and joy.
I'm stuck because there is too much to say. My words aren't gone, they're piling together so fast that they are clogging the funnel of my hands and mind. I can't write because it is impossible to choose just one word, one image, one moment.