thank god I'm getting out of this writing rut

Here we go again, I keep thinking to myself. "The dark place" is such a cliche' but I can't think of any other way to describe it right now, after having not written in months. I haven't experienced the friction of life with nearly as much fervor as I am right now.

I came to the library. I wanted to get out of my house, out of my head. I wanted to write in the artsy little cafe' by the lobby, a half a dozen tiny tables, chipping red paint of the walls, a window to write by,

But lo and behold, the tables all have two chairs, and there's just one me. The windows look out onto a ring of dumpsters, multicolored, white, green, rusty brown in their splendor.

If I focus hard enough, I can ignore the carelessly sprawled open receptacles and observe high-rises in the distance, little yellow houses with welcome mats, perhaps I'll even own one someday-- but as for right now I'm alone, and the gilded steeples are miles away. I'm too close to the garbage not to turn my nose up a little bit.