I've started three projects here now, just trying to get something on the page that I wouldn't be completely humiliated to post; a piece of prose, and two versions of the same poem.
It might help if I had anything worthwhile to say. But I don't. I'm just trying to create something just to create something. I'm not driven by a desire to creating anything in particular right now, but just a desire to create, period.
But I'm lost and stymied. It's all shit. And I haven't been able to finish any of them, so it's incomplete shit, as well.
I couldn't even manage to successfully have a conversation with myself, usually my refuge in these times of creative void.
...
See? He's got nothing to contribute today. My muse is asleep at the wheel.
I guess I should probably just leave. It's time to go home, anyways. And that's really where I'd rather be. I'm taking Her out to dinner and drinks tonight. I've been looking forward to it all day.
So why can't I just go? Why do I keep sitting here, trying to create something of value from my office of all fucking places? What a waste of time. It'd be easier to do from the bar. Even sober.
Alright. Fuck this. Fuck this, fuck me, and fuck this place.
I'm going home.
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