Procrastination

This story is not written with words spilled on a page. The story is told in the space between the words. The white pages.

The days between writing.

The months.

It's a sad story, for me. For you, there simply is no story. My blank space doesn't look any better than yours.

There always seems to be something, or so many somethings, that come between me and my story. Of course, living my story is better than dreaming and writing. I can't believe how many years I dreamed of having a family. I am living dreams of years past, attacked by all of today's responsibilities. And I miss the dreaming.

I don't regret my life. I regret the few moments that slipped through—moments words could have slipped out.