I can't believe it's April in The Second Year of Our Pandemic. And we're about to enter full-blown lockdown (except, of course, for hair salons and gyms).
I realize things could always be worse, but if I believed in Hell, one of its particularly torturous circles would be modelled after Covid-waffling political indecision. And flight delays. And the plight of Schrödinger's cat. Basically any form of repetitive, unending ambiguity.
Yet here I am, at the cusp of National Poetry Month, still waffling over whether or not I'll participate once more in NaPoWriMo. I mean, I swore I wouldn't this year. I figured I'd have too many social events planned.
And here I am, sitting at my desk (i.e. work, creative, and social gathering space all rolled into one).
Let's do this one more time (just the poetry bit).