You know it’s there, the blank pages, the empty file, the word document with the flashing cursor, like lighting waiting to smote the word-smitten, who procrastinate more than they wait, more than they word.

But it’s not a blank page; it’s not an empty file.

It’s the abscess of absence in the presence of the universe, waiting for you to take your seat after you make it. It’s that empty mirror you keep looking at in the dark. It’s more than an expression of self: it is the self. There is no you before you make you; so, you better get busy, you.

Your thinking is getting thin in this heat. So is your hair. Have you had your eight glasses of water? A quarter four – your thoughts?
It doesn’t even matter that your pretzeled logic could use some salt this summer. Do a flip in the pool, take a long walk, short a peer, unleash your thoughts, unmuzzle your oughts. What matters is the doing, the bending of the baker, the light of the candle stick maker, the milk of the cow, and the swiss cheese of the jumped over moon.

What matters is movement. Forward or back. Circles if you must. Like the shark that can never stop swimming, if it wants to breath, if it wants to live. You must write. To breath, to live, to believe. To be.

Always to be.

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