You would say something about the push and pull of every day. And we would plop down with ideas. Think of this and think of that.
Throwing words like imagine and wouldn't it be amazing out into the open. You would even make plans, with patterns and colours for something to go on your wall, your own wall, whenever you'd have a wall. How many of those open docs do you have on your computer, with half-finished chapters and riveting denouements? I know it's hard to believe the people we once used to be. And sometimes fistfuls of carpet can feel like your only way to grip onto the world. Sometimes it feels easier to tear yourself limb from limb than look for your voice. It feels easier to sink into your bed, asleep or searching for sleep than to walk the miles ahead. Waking up every morning, de-shelling yourself, and stepping outside of who you are and used to be can make your bones ache deeply. There isn't much to say about the push and pull of everyday, except that there is a wall, your wall, and it's blank.