As I sit everything about me idles. My brain and my body reside. Inertia, the definition is me.
This state in which I exist forces me to write something. Anything. I must write because I have not written on the novel or a real blog entry since Friday of last week. Nothing has required my brain to piece together my random thoughts into coherency.
Locked in my brain are many stories. One involves the three times that someone called me the life of the party. In the moments, I did not have these thoughts, but now I am proud of myself. I must have learned something from my father who had an innate ability to mingle amongst others. Yet, to write of those instances would be too narcissistic. Or is just the act of having a blog releasing our inner narcissist?
If I don't write my thoughts about what I learned from my father I might lose them. Some new father needs to know that he needs to be the one person to give his daughter the most thoughtful gifts. A dad sets the tone for a daughter's search for a man. My father set the mark high by his actions.
Lurking behind these happy thoughts are dark ones. An anger that I do not allow myself to tap. Mentally I have convinced myself that this anger has no benefits for me. Yet . . .
No. I have revealed much about my psyche here. Even more is revealed in my writing of the novel. No. No dark, angry thoughts. They shall remain in the shadows.