the blank page

 

I'm finding myself unwilling to face the blank page early on each day. 

I'm finding myself making excuses, or simply forgetting. Or saying, "later."

In finding myself anxious about some personal stuff that went down in September and also about the presidential election, and the state of the world. (Social justice, we do not have it yet.)

I'm finding myself taking the bare minimum of photos (one). And doing it late at night (almost letting myself forget). 

I'm finding myself reading crap online - trying to figure out the odds of a narcissistic rapist winning our national election. I'm finding myself reading so many emotionally devastating words of women who have been aggressively assaulted in the same manner he described. It frightens me that he isn't in jail. 

I'm finding myself having conversations that begin, "what would have happened if DT actually physically assaulted HRC at the debate," and end with no one sure if they make the candidates go through a gun detector or not. 

I'm finding myself on a stretch of open road, a scary looming, curving road that if it goes one way next month might be the end of life as we know it. (And the beginning of who knows what.) I can't not say something. 

I'm finding it hard to say it without feeling overwhelmed. It's too obvious. Too important. 

I'm finding it important to stop and take breaks, to remind myself to stay calm. To remind myself to stay hydrated and fed. To get enough sleep. 

I'm finding myself remembering that I don't have to know how to write the right words, I just need to open the blank page and begin. 

I'm finding myself beginning (again).