I have the time, and I don't have the time.
I want to write, and I don't want to write.
I have those words on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my finger,
and yet it feels like I don't.
In that sense it's like an everyday day.
I used to have a lot to say. Actually I still do. But perhaps now, because I'm happy, I mean happier...with the status quo, the words come coated with a paint of laughter, a tint of contentment.
Tragedy makes good writers. Contended writers on the other hand sound boring, even to themselves.
But they wouldn't want it any other way.
But I will say things, soon I will shout and rant and blurt. I will jump to conclusions, I will make my assumptions, I will dispense existential angst at will and I will wander aimlessly as well. The paint of laughter and the tint of contentment though, will not fade. It's a permanent structure now and as permanent structures go...unfadeable.
...cause it's on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my fingers.