I decided to drag myself to a nearby cafe and do some clichéd writing while enjoying a croissant and espresso.
Low hum chatter fills the room.
There are other "clichéd writers" who are tucked away in corners, safeguarded by their earphones from potential conversations.
The tables, for the most part, are occupied, two by two; some are in deep convo, with hands roving about, lost in a telling story, but most are sitting in comfortable silence, with their heads bent over their phones.
Looking around, I notice a certain ease on everyone's faces that only a Saturday morning can provide.
I've been working on a short story this past week. I've never written one. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm enjoying the process nonetheless. Will it ever see the light of day: no. It's just for me.
Heading home soon, as today is a work day. Bleh. But first, I shall order another overly large latte to get me through the rest of the morning.
Self-prescription: hang out at more coffee shops in the morning before work; it feels good.
Life...catapulting ahead regardless of my protests.
She Don't Use Jelly-Flaming Lips