I wrote this days ago.  I don’t know why I never posted it.  It’s something to think about, that.

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Sam has been suggesting I write about something else every once in a while, just to get away for a little, to lighten my mood when it gets too dark for too long.  I know I should have other topics to talk about.  I used to write poetry.  What happened to that?

I haven’t passionately created anything out of words since I first started college.  I used to think it was the busy schedule.  But now, with a 9-to-5, it isn’t that.  My hands don’t seem to connect to anything other than this awful burden of memories.

Again, I find myself given a worthwhile suggestion, but the path to fulfillment is left to me to determine.  I’m left wondering if I should start another blog, one where only those ideas I have that are untouched by depression or darkness go.  Then again, by doing that I’m fragmenting myself further.  I would also subtly project the untrue message, rape survivors don’t have thoughts concerning anything other than their mental anguish and social difficulties.  As I don’t wish to commit either of these sins against myself and others, the idea for a new blog is joining murder and coveting.

So, that officially does away with my only idea.  Obviously, I won’t stop thinking about how I can diversify my writing, but if you have any prompts, criticisms, suggestions, or otherwise, feel free to volunteer them to me now.  I’m a desperate woman.