unicornucopia

Do you ever just not feel inspired to write? What a sad, sad, horrific feeling. Years have ticktocked by and reality has crept in, and I’ve had to focus on responsibilities, career, life path. No time for silly stories, the art of tooling perfect equations of words and having them equal fantastic. Imagination has slowly dwindled. My bizarre, pungent sense of story and diction has, tortuously, dissipated. It feels like someone has taken an album of cherished family photos and thrown them into a fire–something so precious and rare ripped from me and destroyed.

Perhaps I just don’t know what to write about without making it seem dull or ordinary, or to put myself in ink (or virtual ink) right there on a page, laid out for people to see. With these words I have to choose immediately, with the click of the “publish” button, who I want to be and how I will be portrayed.

I must, ultimately, fear categorization.  Have I fought my whole life to be neutral for everyone? To try to coerce all to look bright-eyed upon the figment of myself and say “that girl’s alright?” Am I really so fearful to say that I am, permanently, a human of a certain type? taste? body? occupation? belief?

I hover over categories and take them when I need to. Perhaps I am just afraid to be disliked; when you’re in a category, there’s inherently an anti-category that shuns everything you stand for. If I commit myself to a label, then someone is destined not to like me.

But perhaps that puts me in a category in itself; I know there are many like me who stand confronted with the choice of niche, group, section, sect, corner. We are then, the struggling (and fictitiously) uncategorized–in our defiance and anxiety–categorized in the loneliest group of all.

• My piggy bank has rosy, pink cheeks–always. People’s cheeks are sometimes dirty or pale.
• My piggy bank is obese and everybody thinks it’s cute. Nobody really thinks obese people are cute.
• My piggy bank is always a good listener. I talk for hours to my piggy bank, and it gazes constantly and lovingly at me while I speak.
• My piggy bank always has money for me, even if it’s just a penny. Mostly just pennies…but still.
• When I take my piggy bank for its daily walk, it always follows behind me. Some people stray.
• My piggy bank doesn’t poop. People poop.

I can think of way more things. This will be continued, probably.

Writing this is just about as good as writing a post-it note to myself (pay bills, pick up soy milk, wipe thoroughly, etc.), as I have false hopes that anyone will actually read my blog. But to you, imaginary reader, I introduce myself. If you do decide to follow along, I suggest you read the “About” page. It will catch you up to my situation and the things I’ve written.

And, imaginary reader, if you turn out to not really be imaginary…well, then I extend my greatest, deepest, most sincere thanks for taking the time to read the words from my paltry, undeserving brain.