Shifting

Staring at a blank piece of paper is no different than the hours I’ve spent staring at the eggshell-colored walls in my house. If I could only sleep, then, I’ll know things would work out, and traces of what I’m thinking about won’t show up between my brows: exclamation points, two of them squeezed together.

There’s that beginning, even the end, of every story that goes around and around in your mind—it’s the middle part I’m still stuck in, the part that won’t release me. I become intoxicated—even bored, without the slightest stir in a positive direction. Sometimes, you simply have to find a new font.