In the Interim

Exhausted, too preoccupied, stressed out, tired. These are the days when I can think of so many things to write yet don't have the luxury of time to do so, or much less the effort and the enthusiasm to get my ideas flowing when I'm at my desk. This is what I call writer's block, or isn't this?

Hmmm, maybe I'm just stressed out. Or maybe I'm better off imagining stuff than writing them, translating them to words, and sentences, and to essays, stories, and books. Surely, I'll never be a T.S. Elliot, or a JRR Tolkien, or a Thomas Friedman.

Or maybe I just missed the way I get my thoughts flowing when I draw, using my charcoal or pencil and my six-year-old notebook which I still keep and use until now. Doing this makes use not words and grammar, but plain strokes and shades that go spontaneously with the spur of imagination and dexterity. I do abstract drawing. Many, many people find it hard to appreciate my black and gray artwork. I object for I find them all better than the those expensive works hanged in exhibits and museums. But again, I'm no artist.

Or maybe this is, among other possibilities, the aftermath of my adrenaline rush this weekend when I was pursued by an ugly rabid dog, my most dreaded creature in the planet. In my best effort to burn some fats and chill out in the open air, I went out to jog but, unfortunately, ended up sprinting for my life. I hate rabid dogs.

Or maybe, just maybe, I only need to keep on smiling, for the world has had enough troubles to bear.