Rifle Riffle Ruffle
June 3, 2021
I’m floating. I have no connection. My mind is a raging torrential overflow waterfall in a hurricane. I can’t get a hold of a thought.
I want to write. I can write. I can always write. I can write stuff like this like I’m writing right now. But I want to work on the novel. I can’t.
My mind shuffles through a thousand post it notes looking for the one I wrote the answer to that question on. I can’t find it. The scraps, the sticky scraps, they rifle and riffle and ruffle, post its all over the mind. They plaster the wall between where my mind ends and my skull begins. Right behind my eyes. I can’t see through, and I can’t see back through.
I feel my feet on the ground in front of me. I feel my fingers on the keyboard. But my mind is not attached. It’s floating up towards the ceiling? Nope. I thought I saw it but that’s not it. It’s not there. I don’t know where it is. It’s pretending to be right here. But it’s gone. My mind is gone.