Writer’s Block

What we got here? Nothing but no thing to do. I’m thinking that the time around us just moves. We bob up and down. Weave through the orange cones. Move around. Dance or sit. Pick at scabs and dab at blood.

Think about things that we know or think we know. There’s a sense there’s something right to do or think or say or believe. There’s nothing about the life we “know” to be true or real or right. Waxing philosophical while we wane in our desire to figure anything out. We don’t realize that there’s not a lot heck of a lot to figure out but we strive to do it

What the hell? I’m just rambling. Thinking that I’m writing something profound and I’m eschewing the use of my delete key. Or highlighting and typing over. Just the spacebar. The spacebar. Highlight. Space. Highlight space.

Space. Space. Space.

3 spaces in the open field. A field of grass. Hay, dirt and leaves. Looking without seeing. Hearing withhout listening. Eating without tasting. Thinking without thinking.

“Acting without doing” or “doing without acting”?

Rambling.

Highlight. Space.