Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Blank Cup Syndrome

Wow, May 28th.  Almost feels like a lifetime ago.  I'm impressed at just how fast time flies past me and how thin a grasp I have on the time that does slow down.  What is also impressive is my inability to commit to even the most trivial things.  It's not that they are not important.  I like this blog.  I've had things that I've wanted to express but frankly, just not enough to commit to them.  Not enough to parade them in front of my small readership.  Perhaps some of those thoughts were too personal.  Yes, there are some things that I keep just for me.

A few weeks ago I mentioned that I had received this great gift from a dear friend.  A Starbucks mug that you write your very own statement on it with this porcelain pen then you bake it for a few minutes and voilà a custom made mug.  Now if you know anything about me, you know how much I adore my coffee and the mug is just as important for the experience as the brew itself.  That mug was given to me two Christmas's ago.  I have yet to write anything on that mug!  I drink from that mug every day.  I literally use that mug for hours each and every day.  It truly is my favourite.  It is the perfect weight.  Holds the ideal volume that I can comfortably consume before it gets cold.  The handle fits my hand like a glove.  Yet it's blank.  Each day I ask myself what I should write on it.  At this point I joke that it should say "I can't commit".

Days and months pass and I don't write the millions of things that I ruminate on, here in this blog.  My Facebook statuses have largely dried up.   I never really cared one wit for Twitter.  My brain is busting with all that I have to say and's like I'm a font miser.  I just can't make myself commit to a written word.

Doesn't bode well for the women who once had the ambition to write a novel.  Likely the same reason why this trained artist can't commit to paint.  Blank Page.  Gaping up at me.  Taunting me.  Pinching me and proclaiming that no one would be interested in that thought.  That thought is too provincial.  That thought is too pregnant.

The cup sits in the sink taunting me.