I must confess,
nothing I write here will be revolutionary.
You likely will have heard it from others,
or whispered it to yourself
when that part of your brain
that acts as traffic controller for your emotions
lets a little
sympathy for yourself
My lack of creative output is justified.
What would be the point of
whipping myself with an empty page?
Or simultaneously picking up all the unread books in my apartment?
The metaphorical weight is sufficiently crushing.
When the world began to slowly –
then rapidly –
shut down, there was so much uncertainty.
Much of it remains.
The reach is immense. Every one of us
You may find yourself
measuring your accomplishments by
markers that were set
in previous years,
as I do.
And while nihilism has never been
an outfit I’ve owned,
this past month I have struggled to get out of bed.
So when I do, everything else is a bonus.
Those two hundred words written,
those three pages read.
You showed up at work.
You got through the day.
You showed those around you
a little kindness
(The last is
But that does not mean
I stop trying.)