writer’s block

The urge to write comes sometimes, the urge to have something truly important to say. Urge is not always accompanied by ability.

So here I am with the desire to scrawl something out that’s beautiful and meaningless, and I feel like a pistol empty of bullets. Expectation, anticipation … severed by anti-climax.

Something odd about physical beauty – the pains made to create it are singularly ugly. Eyebrow hair plucked with small hisses of pain, the skin stinging as the discards fall into the sink, coarse and thick; or shaving, really, where the difference between close and cutting is only a razor-thin line.

“You are never too old to be what you might have been.” – George Elliot

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