Guilt

I dislike guilt, having grown up with a copious amount of it.  Self-inflicted guilt is really no different than the kind imposed by others, no matter how many mental gymnastics you go through trying to convince yourself that it really is different and somehow, better.   I want to write.  I like to write.  But I hate to write unless I have something to say.  And it seems that lately, I haven’t had a lot to say.  Which is kind of scary, since there ought to be a plethora of things that need talkin’ through.  We’ve come through a harrowing election both in terms of individuals and propositions.  The loving and tolerant folks who lost on Proposition 8 in California have taken to loving and tolerant actions like vandalism.  The economy is in the dumps and figuring out how to burrow through the bottom of the dump and into the ground like some sort of vast, catastrophic Puxatawney Phil. 

There’s no shortage of things to talk about.  But inspiration is elusive.  Perhaps it’s just fatigue at the end of a long Pentecost season.  Perhaps it’s the looming holiday season ahead.  It could be gas, but that usually passes just fine without holding up inspiration too long. 

Whatever it is, I hope it leaves soon.  Or returns.  Or whatever the appropriate metaphor is. 

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