It’s raining; it’s pouring.
The old woman is snoring.
She went to bed and bumped her head,
And she couldn’t get up in the morning.
Seriously, it’s all grey and yucky outside and I’m utterly unmotivated. I am without motive. I cannot be bothered to motivate. Too tired to be inspired. I just want to curl up with a big, BIG quilt, some very hot tea, and as many cats as I can borrow from my neighbors for the day. (They don’t mind. Really.) I don’t want to move at all. I don’t want to go to work, or feed the animals, or walk the dog, or do anything that I don’t feel like doing. And I don’t feel like writing, because it’s raining.
It’s cold and drizzly. No one’s paying me to write, so I don’t actually have to, do I? I mean, what would the consequences be? (Well, other than letting myself down. So there’s that.) But. Rain. Water from the sky. If you’ve ever visited Oregon, you know this is some apocalyptic bullshit, right here. I can be a slug for one day. Who will notice? (I will.)
I want to stay inside and lay about and do nothing, even though that’s bad for the grey matter between my ears and makes me feel like a ghost. Yes, the weather dictates my life.
So that’s why I’m not writing today. It’s raining.