I don’t have any particular thoughts I want to jot down today. I haven’t had any moments I feel like translating into words and sentences. I don’t have any emotional pull in any direction. I could write about the political mess this world is in – how my days are intermittently dispersed with war in some corner of the world, a coup in another. I could write about the big mass of plastic floating in our ocean, or that I just read the biggest cleanup of the ocean just started – but I didn’t click on the link so it was just another passing thought in my day.
I could write about the couple perched on the wall as I walked by with Luna this evening – their makeout session so intense I don’t think I was even existing in their world. A raspy radio station played through the half-cracked windows of their car parked next to them. I just don’t feel like diving deep into the Italian culture of PDA tonight. Meh. Doesn’t make the words flow.
I could write about memories and ignite the hearts of my family or anyone else that finds their own truth in my words. I could always do that. Tonight I don’t feel like opening that book up and copying out the pages. Nope. My brain just won’t plug in that film strip and let it roll, flickering and crackling in the background.
I could write warnings to study abroad students, but this Saturday at the end of the semester (if they aren’t already gone), the advice from a thirty-year-old will fall on deaf ears, and each day that I gain more crows feet and gray hair, I wonder how much longer they’ll listen to me before their image of me transforms into “that lady that thinks she knows us. That’s already kind of happened, I know. Pure proof of that was when one of my last students didn’t wish I was her sister but instead wished I could adopt her.
I could and should write about what the hell is up with legal immigration into the US, because no one seems to know. I can write chapters on why Trump’s plan for legal immigration has enormous gaping holes in it, but no one can see past the damn wall – but, I don’t feel like drumming up a war cry tonight.
I could write about how my typing average of 70 WPM (words per minute) makes me feel superior (lol not really), but what it really means is that I can just crank out 400 words (that’s right, this nonsense is already at number 433) like nobody’s business but that doesn’t mean that they’re going to say anything worth saying. This fast typing does, however, make me excellent at transcribing (listening to audio and typing it out) so if anyone needs those services, here I am!
I could write about all those things or other things, but instead, I wrote about writing about those things, which I’m pretty sure I’ve done on here before, but 365 days is a lot longer than 500 words, and so this is what’s happening. Getting words down on paper, no rewriting, no deleting, maybe getting ideas, and plugging away until the next time true inspiration strikes.