Not So Much

This will be short and sweet.  The number of times I've promised myself I'd be in bed before midnight could wrap around my fair city at least three times.  But it all comes back to the blog or to writing.

On that subject, I'm none too pleased with what I'm cranking out as of late.  June is only half expired and already this gal is melting.  My muse is voiceless.  The days are harried before I fully rise.  The nights bring down a heavy curtain of exhaustion and dense brain fog.  I put my fingers to the keyboard and force them to m-a-r-c-h across the array of letters beneath them.  I apologize to my readers for being less than witty, something other than interesting, often appearing a bit ditsy or unthinking. 

Morning breaks over me with all of the precision of a hastily cracked chicken's egg.  From dog to husband to kitchen to yard to exercise before the heat fries me, to all the rest, minutes sizzle and pop, solidifying into a congealed collection of hours, sticking one to the other, unable to separate and allow a solid piece of time for wandering over words.  Thus, as is the case now, when the family slumbers, I settle into my laptop, often on the worn brown leather of our couch, and exact the daily discipline of this blog.  I once cared too much that every word be placed just so, gems situated perfectly in their settings, but I'm living so hard and fast during the day that I realize I must do as I can -- for now -- before my heavy eyes shut out the night.

Don't misinterpret this.  My life is well-rounded, if a bit too busy.  Many can say that.  I'm full of goodwill where my friends and family are concerned.  Being able to hold full conversations with my previously incarcerated baby brother at any time of day is a luxury every time it unfolds.  I'm grateful.  I'm living.  Just a bit frazzled and frustrated with my inability to delete a few mundane activities in order to make room for my passion.  Summer is upon me, upon us, and it is demanding. 

I'm loving life.  Just not loving my writing.