Nothing to Say.

Nothing to write about is a bad sign. With so much to write about it seems strange to have nothing to say about any of it. Weather, religion, politics, even sex. News, work, students, friends, even food. Nothing. I wonder if this is what writers block is all about, or maybe depression? The world flows around you but doesn’t seem to touch. The sun shines but doesn’t seem to be warm. Time moves slowly.
Ah. Reality. Seven squirrels stocking up on spilled sun flower seeds. Furry and warm. Paying not the least attention to the sleeping dogs, going on their way oblivious. Of what? If they knew they wouldn’t be oblivious, would they? Duh.

Tonight then tomorrow then tomorrow again.

Immage: www.spanring.eu