St. Ang

Writing here has become something of a laboured process. Mostly due to mundane tangible things like too much work, too little distraction and next to no inspiration. I've almost completely stopped laughing unless I absolutely owe it to someone, or people are looking expectantly. Why, even my kittens think I'm a sour-puss! And a day without uncontrollable laughter is not merely a day wasted. It's greater consequence is in being unable to contribute to my writing.

I spend the better part of the day entertaining myself with puerile wordplay, but I never get around to seriously writing. Instead, I hang around wearing the face that I keep in a jar by the door. I spend all my alone-time preparing a face to meet the faces that I meet. And it's nothing more than a mildly poetic idea, this amalgam of Eleanor and Eliot.

I guess a holiday is in order. In exactly a month from now, my dear friend Swetha is getting married. I'm hoping the couple of days that I take off for her wedding will translate into a week's holiday. Maybe I should go away somewhere quiet and pretty for a couple of days. But I have daughters to think of. Let's see. When things fall apart, they often tend to know how to fall back into place. If that's as true as I think it is, in no time at all I'll be writing again.