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I can hear a couple arguing in the street outside my apartment. She's walking away from him, he's swearing. He says "Fuck you-I don't need you, " and then goes after her.

I can hear the people in the church across the street, praying for...?

I can hear people screaming from the carnival down the street.

I can smell the elephant ears from the carnival too. Cotton candy and popcorn mixed in.

I can smell the perfume I put on this morning and my shampoo from still wet hair when I take out my bun. I can smell sweat, trapped under my arms and mingling with Secret.

I can feel the tightness in my shoulders and back from a week of work catching up to me. I can feel my feet breathing, happy to finally be free of shoes and socks.

I can feel my stomach rumble slightly as I remember that lunch was several hours ago and I have steak in the fridge.

I can feel the words coming through my fingers and onto the screen but they don't mean anything.

I tell myself 'at least you're writing' but it doesn't really matter. I can't find my inspiration and haven't been able to for months. Seems like it should be easier by now. And I mean more than The Book I Haven't Written Yet. Capitalized because it's starting to feel like Voldemort.

I wonder how others feel about me, or if they do at all. I wonder about how I might succeed if I ever will. I wonder if any of it ever really matters, or if it ever did. I wonder if I'm too much sometimes, or if I'm not enough. I wonder if I'll ever know, or even if I should.


I wish I could turn my brain off to all the NOISE and then flip the switch to create what I envisioned so many months ago.

<twenty minutes later>

I guess this will have to do for now.