Cynics.

All inspiration left my body. A stagnant fortitude filled every ounce as I tried to put pen to paper yet again, but more like typing and less ink-filled.

I watch the people type on their typewriters in movies, imagining how tired my fingers would be, but then realize the carpal tunnel I have from years of finger texting, and typewriting on my modern laptop is far worse. Less worthwhile. Do we ever give our estranged fingers a break?

I'm addicted to lying in the hammock in our backyard. I can do that here since the wonderland of a white frosted whistle Dixie I formerly knew doesn't exist. There isn't anything romantic about it and that's probably because I am too familiar.

Us women need to speak up. Those who have and those who do get the benefits of hands and arms around them every night. We have to speak up because the others don't- they aren't filled with trust until the right one does speak up.

But wait, neither am I.



bw