Naturally Banal

Cold morning, grey clouds. Dripping rain.
Warm house. Coffee. Quiet jazz.
Lighting softened by the lack of sun.

House sounds more distinct, more present.
Muffled car sounds swishing outside.
Appreciating the clouds and rain.
Keeping me and others in.
There’s quietness in the air.

Then on to the desk. Will words come to me today?
Will I sit and stare?
Just write anything to stimulate your writing muscles.
Create. Express.
Maybe something coherent, thoughtful, will appear.

Time for another cup of coffee?
Something to eat?
Time to look outside and watch the rain.
Then wander around the house.
So much to do!!

Should I do some drawing? That’s been more productive lately.
But I miss the words.

The day continues. Life goes on.
I sit here doing what? Writing about nothing.

Is this it today?
What is more compelling, the result or the searching for some kind of meaning in words on a page?
Do I feel more human by expressing this triteness?
Yes. Sort of. Of course.
I do it because this what I’ve been given to do.