Too Much

People talk of waiting for something to write about, but that's not my problem.

No, my problem is trying to decide among all the available things to write about what to zero in on.

So, mostly, I just don't zero in at all --- well, except for the book I'm currently working on and a few other distractions, but I don't write as much as I should. It's like all my senses overwhelm me. And not only my senses, but my feelings and thoughts do, too.

That pain in my foot. That recollection of my friend from youth who last year got so ill and almost died.

There's just so much.

There's the homemade bandage I made this morning when I couldn't find a store-bought one but had cut myself with my box cutter and was bleeding like a pig.

There's the line of books on the shelves on the wall above my computer screen --- not to mention all the ones I have taken the spine off of and fed through a scanner, hundreds of them.

There's all these colors and sounds, even though the TV is off and the radio isn't on, either. But the computer has a engine, a fan, or something making a faint sound. And even in making that observation, you see how I have to explore it, analyze it, figure it out. And there are other people in this house. They come and go and there is no silence.

Somebody flushes the toilet. Somebody speaks.

I'm thirsty, and I take a sip of water. Water is so bland. I wonder what's in the fridge?

And on it goes, little or no focus. Often little or no willingness to find a focus.