I looked outside the hospital window this afternoon, with the sun shining over palm trees and sky a cloudless blue, the cold air just barely seeping in. I thought how odd it was that this was just the 4th day of January. The sun is just as bright, people are just as busy, and no one thinks the world is falling apart. But it feels like it to me.

I don’t have stories about this experience. I just don’t have words to synthesize into digestible bits that resolve into a message, an understanding or a clarification. Nothing. I have no words.

Once I started, I thought, writing would not be difficult. The rhythm would arrive. I’d just sit and type, and beautiful, emotive stories would dance across the screen.

Obviously not.

I’m tired. Most activities feel pointless and this self indulgence is irritating and embarrassing. However. I have made a commitment to myself for the month of January. So I must write – rubbish or not.