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I haven’t felt much like writing these days. I am stuck in life, and therefore stuck on page. I do okay when I’m sad, lonely, despairing. I can turn this into sub-par poetry. But resignation yields nothing. It is not made of the stuff that easily transforms into art. Its expression on canvas is nothing—the absence of paint strokes, rather than a color, form, or movement of the arm. There is no internal seed to resignation. No impetus that leads to something else.

I look around and see flatness that continues ad infinitum. They say that one thing you can count on is change, but I see a landscape that doesn’t shift or move or transform. The boredom and lack is so vast and leads no where.

I stop writing because I don’t want to be the kind of person who holds such negativity and spreads it to the world. I have a sister like that… I can only imagine how many people, most of whom are complete strangers, she has hurt in her life with her bitterness. I don’t want to be her. So I try to descend, deeper and darker into the resignation, completely giving up and trying not to want anything from life. Is this what surrender is, the not-wanting? How does one continue to want and wish and hope while simultaneously giving up? It’s a lesson I have not yet learned.

I move to plan B. The sinking does not work, and so I keep on keeping on. I go to work and force myself to tend to the daily tasks that make-up life. I try to escape out of myself. And I drink coffee as support.

Today, I am grateful for coffee.