Raging Against the Dying of the Blog

I do not write. I am not writing. I cannot write. I write only by subterfuge, telling myself that I am not writing, just jotting down the few words repetitiously knocking about in my head like song lyrics that will not go away. If I am not writing, what, then, am I doing? It seems like the last few weeks have been dedicated to listening: I listen to friends going through various crises or life-changes or growth-spurts, do what I can to cheer them on, get dubbed Ma-rah-rah which cracks me up. Recognize myself in each of their struggles so that I can say, honestly, it’s not just you. This stuff is hard. I absorb fear and anger like a human sponge and go and wring it out where I can, come back to do my cheering on: you can do this, you are doing this, I know...

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