Words feel like taffy today and my fingers are sticky.
I keep pulling apart and twisting and pulling, but right now things just look like a mess. If I stop now I am left with sticky hands and strings of confection that amount to nothing.
So I am here.
Pulling and twisting.
Unsure it will really amount to anything lovely and sweet.
But twisting and pulling just the same.
I realized I’m a finish line kind of person. I’m not so much about the process as I am about the product.
That makes writing a tricky endeavor.
But it’s either give up or change.
If only change felt good and easy. That would be lovely. But even change is a process, mocking my desire for destination over journey.
I’m choosing to exhale, but this time I’m getting busy.
Busy with words, even in their mess.
So I sit here with sticky fingers willing my words to become.
Please pardon my appearance; apparently I’m under construction.