The translation of thoughts to words is often ill-crafted.
The interpretation of those words, if left open, can allow new, and at times contradictory thoughts to emerge.
Im writing again. But science, not feelings. The message seems to be getting through.
What with buster mistakenly smashing my phone, getting a kindle and generally feeling that I have nothing of merit to say, I have stayed away from here. Waiting for sufficient inspiration to strike.
I bought myself a new set of sketching pencils but no image will form. The tin and contents remain pristine.
I imagined myself as a crocodile while I cycled to work. I felt my face squash and elongate as my teeth divided and sharpened against my mouth. A crocodile on a bike, singing Tori Amos in her head and wondering why none thought this was an odd spectacle to observe.
Things around me have soaked up and exhale a strange aroma, not unlike liquorice mixed with salt and pine, an unmistakable scent I associate with expectation. I am waiting.
What am I waiting for?
For a change in my inner landscape from this continual monotonous arid day.