Writing

Writing. It is easier when I am sick. Words come easier when I am deformed and bloody. When I scrape and hobble sideways under a bleak sky. When I am a castaway and have that panicky feeling as the brine splashes around my chin. When the smiles and perfunctory "Good Morning"s of thin, energetic, wealthy people are rather perceived by me as a daily moment where all my clothes are instantly removed and I must respond in kind in order to have them returned. When I fear the earth is not a safe environment for man, the planet is not habitable, and I am trapped here away from my natural habitat like a fish in a swimming pool, breathing in chlorinated water through my gills that burns as it passes through. This is one of those days.