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A blank stare is not worth much these days. Contemplation pays no bills. Reflection only digs you deeper into poverty, like burying buckets of thoughts into concrete hoping one will take root and blossom gold. Time no longer turns your way. Each tick reminds you of how little time there really is in a day and the minutes and hours seems dire and you can hear them thinking “the hell with it, we might as well keep turning until all is old and tired and bone weary”.

And then a happy thought comes along. It takes you, really takes you and there you are again, contemplating, of life and love and all the good things poets write of. You convince yourself bills no longer matter, the drives to work spent quiet, windowed up, seem less sensible. And you find yourself in front of a computer, wanting to write your life’s story before inspiration sucks you dry; before the little blinking line on the computer screen mocks your stillness, almost defying your creativity. And you stop writing. The laptop seems burdensome so you lay it on the floor. And the window outside shows you the world again, there as always.

Another time, you think. My story can wait.

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