On a day that whispered seasonal lies, a glass of merlot and a musky candle sound about right.
Plans didn’t pan out for the evening – actually there were never any plans. And while yesterday I was content (and relieved) to skive off community group and watch a movie, vacuum, iron, dust, nap, and take a bike ride to watch the sun set, this evening I would have rather done more than log a few hours on youtube.
But blogging isn’t such a bad accomplishment for the evening.
A link popped up in my shared Google feeds today contrasting writers and people who write. I didn’t read the whole article (I am a product of my generation; if it doesn’t capture my attention within seconds, it gets skimmed. If you’re reading this, I thank you), but I wondered nonetheless if I could be considered a writer anymore.
I can write. But there is not the impetus and finger-tingling and moment. Perhaps it’s writer’s block, which strikes me as perhaps a more (or less) articulate expression of creative constipation.
But then I think of the way my thoughts flit from present to past to future to imaginary to dreamed. I think of how I can physically think myself into a headache. I think of the only rational, logical conclusion of my utter inherent contradiction, and how whatever that conclusion is, it must connect me to the mad and perplexing and creative.
“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?” 
Without the benefit of sociology or the dedication of research, allow me to posit that we don’t all see the world the same way. Perhaps I want you to see the world through my near-sighted eyes. Or I want to catch a glimpse of your perspective.
“I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.” 
I think I will have something to say in some years, once I have the hindsight I so awkwardly anticipate to look back on what I am doing today.
Now the sunlight had lifted clear of the open space and withdrawn from the sky. Darkness poured out, submerging the ways between the trees till they were dim and strange as the bottom of the sea. The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers glimmering under the light that pricked down from the first stars. Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.