Nothing

Dear Blog,

I'm not writing as much as I would like to. I lack the inspiration to write much. Nothing is compelling me to write. It sounds sad because it is. I want to write tons upon tons of stuff, but I lack the drive to. I don't know what to do about it. Hopefully this is just a sort of writing funk that I'm in.

If I had something intriguing, introspective, or interesting, I'd immediately log onto Blogger and type to my heart's content. But I haven't had the spark of imagination that would allow me to elaborate on a subject. Any subject. I simply stare at the blank screen now. I wish I something to discuss before heading off to PSY 315.

I could talk about my classes (going well, slightly annoyed by ENG 315, interested in Psychology more than English this semester, Spanish test on Monday), my work (new floor decorations in the planning stages, open door contest going well, just started the Study Buck program, duty this weekend), my friends (Nikki's new relationship, enjoying the company of each member of Woods staff, Sarah and my lack of texting), my girlfriend (her crying due to boredom, her gentle and loving touch, watching Pokemon and Doctor Who), my sonic screwdriver (exciting new addition to my geeky arsenal), my new shirts (Big Bang Theory Bazinga and KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK PENNY, Dalek Exterminate, and House related), my new room arrangement (far more opening and practical, option of watching Dallas Cowboys game on Sunday), my plans (poster placements in planning phase, dressing up nice for Victoria, rushing Phi Sigma Pi), my homework (story writing and reading). But I don't want to sound so self-centered, only talking about what I do/have done/want to do.

This entry reminds me a poem I wrote a while back.

Daniel Golden
Digital Garden

I stare down the ten-watt lamp
over my desk, thinking of what to write.
Shaking my head to break my idle gaze,
I wonder if my muse will arrive.

The LCD monitor in front of
me is a blank background,
a white void of potential
that calls for my creative words
to establish roots and prosper
into a new colony of ideas.

The lone cursor blinks in the void,
awaiting input, a sapling awaiting rain,
begging nourishment every other second.

I finally type, the clicks
reverberating in my barren room,
with every key planting seeds onscreen.

The letters spell out my predicament
as I soon realize my muse isn’t coming
and I have no poem.

Until next time!
-Daniel Golden