You asked how I’m feeling of late.

I find myself in a gentle disorientation.

Neither here nor there,

rested yet restless.

I want to write.

Pressing topics pulse on the fingertips, 

yet I can’t choose one.

Even concentrating on a single book seems too large a task.

Jung, Castaneda, Camus, The Wheel of Time, 

all open and closed, seemingly left behind.

It takes weeks to finish a documentary, 

paused, then the inescapable rewind.

It takes days to read an article.

I start one, shift to another before finishing.

They blur and commingle, 

entanglements of stories old and new.

Perhaps I’m simmering into something. 

Quietly brewing with intention, 

in a blend of spices and herbs. 

Sweet and sour, warm on the inside.

Cool to the touch.

Time is a nonrefundable currency.

May this time spend me well.