Like Bilbo
So… I hate staring at the blank white page with no idea what to write, other than writing that I hate staring at the blank white page with no idea what to write. Still, it’s something.
I’m tired today, my brain is tired. I feel like Bilbo, thin, like butter spread over too much bread. I’ve felt like this before, probably written so before, but it’s never been this thin, this worn. You know, it’s this house, it’s my trach (the little plastic tube in my throat), it’s life, it’s wanting to be close to someone who’s far-away.
Share me:
