Nothing Revisited

I've been wanting to post, meaning to post, hoping to post, and I've got nothing to post. What is it about the blank page that freezes the brain, clogs the thought process and makes an otherwise intelligent woman an idiot? You've got me, but here I sit, an idiot with a keyboard typing who knows what that no one will read but me.

Sometimes, you've just got to babble even if just to yourself. The hope is that somewhere in the babble, some sense, something intelligible will come out, sort of like the chimps with the typewriters coming up with Shakespeare. Okay, well maybe that's too hopeful. Unlike the chimps, I don't have large blocks of time to just type nothing in the hopes of something meaningful arriving on the screen. But maybe, just maybe if I keep typing I'll get a clue to some profound wisdom or at least a hint about who I used to think I wanted to be.

I've spent so much time trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grow up, somehow I grew past the time I was supposed to accomplish whatever that was. Does that even make sense? Oh well, I've never been accused of making much sense.

The reality is, as some wise somebody once said, life is what happens while you're busy making plans. So here I am grown up, still trying to figure it out and babbling into the ether. Talk, talk, talk, blah, blah, blah, type, type, type. Life goes on and tomorrow the alarm clock will ring. I'll roll out of bed to face another day. I'll be confronted with an empty page and I'll babble again. Oh Cheetah, where are you when I need you?