Writing for me is like… tidying up.
When i can’t write, the trash keeps accumulating. Till i am often nothing else but trash.
I feel rushed. Burdened. Tired.
Today i hugged my tired wife early in the morning with all my being and she didn’t hug me back. She just stood there waiting for it to get over so that she could get back to her life.
Maybe she could also sense all the trash.
Maybe it stinks.