At Least They're Committed

So I walked up on high and I stepped to the edge to see my world below. Had to laugh at myself while the tears rolled down, cuz it’s the world I know, it’s the world I know. ~ Collective Soul

Can’t write, can’t write, can’t write, can’t write. I’ve logged on here three times today trying to conjure up a video premise, but I’m blocked. I tried to write something only for me, something fun, but that didn’t work either.

Conjure is an awesome word.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work . . .

Oh, yeah, that’s it. I haven’t gotten to play in, well, AGES. I fear I might be forgetting how. How did I used to have fun?

Whoa! Did I ever have fun? What is fun really? How existential is that?

Remember jumping about the front-yard-turned-into-the-moon and the gravity was minimal and you floated?

Remember being so enraptured in your imaginary world that your mom let you stay out until the sun went down, the air cooled and the porch lights went on?

Remember burning your palms trying to escape the molten lava rising around you by crawling the wrong way up the hot, aluminum slide?

Trotting around the neighborhood, right hand cupped in front holding the invisible reigns of King Cobra, your massive red stallion who would let no one near you?

Fantasizing about that cute guy curling up in bed with you and having no notion of sex or even copping a feel? 

Or how about Roger T. Black, the singing, black dragon who, between choruses, would sweep down and snap the heads off of the people who picked on you?

Why, why, why can’t we hold onto that? How do I get it back?

Are these times contagious? I’ve never been this bored before. Is this the prize I’ve waited for? ~ Collective Soul