The picture is gratuitous enough, as previously implied, but it does capture the way I feel right now far better than my words could. I am also on my new bed and I lurveeee it.
Two days ago I cracked open my current poetry notebook and started writing. Despite my love of verse and my desire to produce poetry for a living, I have been unable to write anything of a satisfactory caliber in quite a long time. So, Tuesday night, I put an end to my dry spell and forced myself to journal, instead, just so I would have something on the page. The last time I kept a journal has to have been at least seven or eight years ago. Surely not since middle school, anyway. Over the last five or so years, poetry has been my way of documenting my life - events, people, feelings - and so it felt weird, at first, to journal again, to just write and write without any real thought to form or structure. It also felt extraordinarily therapeutic - to say something, to finally be writing again. Though not in verse form, at least my thoughts have once more found their way to a page. My hope in trying this was that, sooner or later, all this writing would somehow inspire me to write poetry again.
It must have worked because Tuesday night, or, more precisely, extremely early yesterday morning, I wrote my first poem in over three months, and I actually like it.