The stories are there, I just can't get them out today. This is one of those days that I feel so... enclosed? isolated? I don't even know if there's a word for it. Whatever it is, I hate it because it snowballs into something so pernicious that I wonder why I even bother getting up in the morning.
I try to write to give me a purpose, even if it is an invented one, even if it is read by few.
If we are honest with ourselves, we recognize that there really isn't a "point" to anything. Now before I go any further, I admit that I am entering into a world of philosophical cliches. This alone upsets me that I can't come up with something original, but isn't everything derivative anyway? Another cliche, sigh.
Anyway, back to the subject of "points." In the grand scheme of things, what any of us does is so infinitesimally meaningless that logic dictates...
Oh, forget it. Not today, or at least not right now. Maybe, I'll try again later. Sorry.
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