Thursday, February 13, 2014


The worst illness is being sick for a home you've never had. Okay, it's not the worst. There are at least 14,776 worse illnesses out there, but homesickness is at least in the top one thousand.

So I've got the whole homesickness thing going for me. I also have the whole writer's block shtick. According to someone somewhere who I trust, having writer's block just means you are lazy. Fine, so maybe I am lazy. What's it to ya, Person I Trust? I might be lazy and I might be a fake, but I will never be a blockhead. Never say never -- my brain lately seems to be nothing but a failed Tetris game. Nothing fits quite right and it's Game Over.

I could write about my dreams of being on Broadway? No. No, because I don't dream that. I wouldn't be writing the truth. I dream more of being an Off-Broadway star. And I don't even have to be the star all of the time. Being a participant would suit me just fine. I kind of dream of being an Off-Broadway participant. But even then, that's not my truth.

Still searching. Searching for a home and a truth and suspicious that they might be the same thing.

Can I live inside of a truth? Can I have a breakfast nook and a dinner party and a welcome mat at the front door of a truth? I have a sinking feeling that truth doesn't use front doors. Truth breaks through windows with bricks. Truth might be the brick.

There are at least 14,776 worse illnesses. There are at least 14,775 unlocked doors. Find the key for the one that's locked.

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