Tired and bored of myself

I used to really enjoy writing. I used to be so upset when I felt the onset of writer’s block. Now I never write and never complain about any blocks. It is as though I don’t care anymore. What could I possibly say that hasn’t been said before?

There are no variations to my days. There is a farm near us. On pleasant, sunny days the cows come out to graze. They are black with a white strip running down and around the middle. Every cow is identical. No genetic variation there. My days are like these identical bovines in every way.

Get up, get out of bed, drag a comb across my head, go downstairs, drink a cup…fire up the computer. That’s it.

I am not complaining. There is a lot to be said about themes lacking variation. If one wished for variations one could get a deluge of unpleasant ones. Who needs that!

Just wish each day was just slightly different from the rest.

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