Another misery-clouded day has arrived. It is dressed a Tuesday but is not that.
Woden’s Day is here and its eve saw my calling my moggy in at 3.30am as the sounds of a fox barking fractured my sleep. Sure enough, one call and she came trotting to the door; tail partially plumed.
I was thinking about all those bloggers whom I have shared airtime with and now do so no more.
The magic of blogging throws up lots of new people who appear like-minded enough to share a comment, or post, or a like. Most of the people seem to be mildly confused with the lot that has been dealt to them and many are in the process of reaching within themselves before finally reaching out. This gives rise to a blossoming relationship that is punctuated with short periods of absence. Then, the line goes dead.
One of my first contacts was a wonderful woman from the States. She was full of energy, brimmed with life, replete with useful write-advice. Then one day, it stopped.
This chattering and silencing is a pattern that does the pattern thing, repeating itself unto eternity until the message has been received. It’s not an alien abduction although it could be nature’s final word. I think likelier is the dimming of the new, the boredom with the adventure, the same things spilling forth in the same way before eventually drying up.
I have had those times when the thoughts don’t come. Why write when there is nothing worthy to write about? Perhaps it’s just my daily jog, a way of keeping moderately fit, a stretch out in the open, and a wave of the hand to anyone who may be passing my way.