I meant to write

I swear I did. I meant to write, I meant to do at least one blog post.

But then I got distracted.

Or maybe I was tired.

Or maybe I felt guilty for not showing up at Jon’s birthday, or maybe I felt shortchanged that I hadn’t gotten to spend my well-deserved Friday night with some of my favourite people. But you could blame that one on the fever.

So maybe it was the fever. Maybe I needed to recuperate. Yes, perhaps if not for the physical limitations, the workings of my failing body, I would have produced a thought-provoking piece full of literary finesse and insight.

Or maybe the fault lies in my state of mind- a very dull state, a brain running a creative deficit from a week of lacklustre articles, in part due to the poorly written emails to generic addresses of professionals much too important or busy to entertain my dear sir/madam’s and could I consult you about this topic on which your expertise and years of experience would be invaluable’s and thank you kindly’s and I look forward to hearing from you soon’s and best regards’ and please don’t hesitate to call’s and no seriously call me back’s and say something, say anything’s.

Maybe it was the cheese I ate for lunch.

Or maybe it was the books I borrowed from the library that got to me first. Although reading the books that I got from the library yesterday may just be a better investment of my time and maybe my binging will be worth it when finally I accumulate enough five-syllable words to string together long sentences segmented by comma after comma after semi-colon that my blog posts will all read oh so magnificent that they will cause eyes to roll in their sockets from the sheer glory of the text hovering on the bright blue-tinted screen of electronic devices everywhere across the globe.

Or maybe I had nothing good to say.

Maybe I just needed an excuse to write about nothing at all because writing about something means first having something to write about and having nothing to write about is the worst thing to write about because maybe everything that happened in the week was unworthy of comment or deeper introspection or has been archived in the ‘unimportant’ or ‘to be trashed’ sections of my long term memory.

Maybe on weeks like this one it might be better for me just to keep silent.