I used to tell stories. there was always something to tell. the guy I’d met at the grocery story or how someone dropped their keys and I’d chase after them. or when a barista would create a coffee art heart on top of my cappuccino. I would mention it. it wouldn’t just be something that happened to me during the day. it would become a story. with details and carefully constructed reflection of reality.
I used to do that. and I still do. but nowhere near as often as I used to. the last few days have been a boring stream of working hours, endless emails and applications to different directions in hopes that something would stick. I accused the boy of sleeping and waiting all the time, but somewhere deep down I keep thinking, maybe I was talking about myself. maybe.
I am almost forcing myself to write every day. at least a paragraph. anything. in hopes something will stick.