Some days I'm terrified of a blank page. I sit frustrated that the document has no proper name for saving and the page mocks my hopes, dreams, and imaginations.

Some days I cannot wait to get in front of the computer. I close the shop with a quickness that makes me forget if I even locked the door all so I can gain three extra minutes of wandering in my head and dancing on the keys.

Some days my high school guidance counselor was right.

Some days I realize my high school guidance counselor was an oddly shaped man with knee socks who shouldn't have taught English.

Some days writing is more religious than anything I believed as a child.

Some days I can't write. I blame the music I played, the weather, my medications, and myself.

Some days I'm drunk on my own regrets.

Some days I laugh it all off and watch it float off like dead skin in a bath tub.

Some years I remember every detail. Every thought is crime scene evidence that has been cataloged so I can comb through it like a detective trying to prove motive.

Some years I'm just happy to have survived.