A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-Two-Hundred-And-Fourteen

I almost forgot to write my blog tonight.  I was finishing up my poetry writing and it was already so late, and I just wanted to get myself ready for bed.  I've been so slow tonight, distracted, I think, on some level.  I sat at the computer for a long while waiting for a poem to begin, and just had to wait.  It happened eventually.  I think it is often just a matter of wearing down a certain resistance, of outlasting it.  If I say, I am not getting up and not going to do anything else, after a bit, the part of my mind that is resistant will give up out of boredom.  I just have to outlast it, sitting and staring at the blank screen.  Tonight, that took a bit of time.  It was already getting late when I started, and it was quite late when I finished, so it is not all that odd, I guess, that I forgot about this blog momentarily.  Obviously, I didn't rush off and get to bed, considering that I wrote this, but I can't help finding it a bit curious that I could so easily misplace a task I do each day.  There is something odd about it that strikes me in a particular way that I am not certain how to describe at the moment.  I suppose it is enough, for now, to have captured this much.

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