But now trapped in this cruel spiral – work makes me too busy to write, I feel bad about not writing, when I find time (like now) that I could write a little the guilt fills me up and stifles the writing I want to do.

I feel like a dry well, waiting for a rainstorm I can just see on the horizon.  Being busy should mean I have lots to talk about.  But since I doubt my readers want to understand just how often college boys have to pee (I was helping with a collegiate event at work that, in part, required escorting these kids to the restroom), I’m tapped out.

I’m also seeing some of the signs of a depressive episode coming on.  That makes me feel smaller, drier of creative thoughts, less like what I say is what anyone wants to hear.