After five shifts, it is harder to get started. The neck is sore. Requiring yoga. Two jazz nights, a busy saturday, a long sunday, wine tasting. Well, there's nothing to write, simply no energy.
The quietness of the blank page
The author has difficulty finding employment. If he were employable in the standard way he would not be an author. The prevailing monopoly culture has decreased the value of his work to the point of economic worthlessness. Why put more work into it, when it is already worthless, no prospect of compensation...
After the workweek, completely sluggish. The monkish life. The yoga to look forward to, a meditation to fend off the coming holidays.
Relax, relax. It's just that the words are coming very slowly today. Hard to break through.
A nice lady, a regular, tells me, quietly, as she leaves with her two church friends... "you're not as happy as you used to be..."
Yeah, deep down, she is right.
An author in the flesh... That's the important thing. It's no longer whether you are even recognized at all anymore, but just that you live the life, as best you can.
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