I’m in an empty space right now.  I haven’t the wherewithal to write, to be creative, to do much of anything requiring more than the minimum of mental output.

Hell, I’m even finding it difficult to process images.

I can’t make progress on Dreamdarkers or End of the Warm Season.  I stare blankly at each manuscript.  I know what needs to be done, yet I can’t find the sharpness of intellect to do it.

Walks have been few and far between.  The weather helps with that: nice during the week when I must work to pay the bills, then rainy before and/or during the weekend to keep me from venturing too far from the patio.

I wanted to take several road trips recently.  Those didn’t work out.  Again, it was raining everywhere I wanted to go, cloudy and miserable in a way that kills the spirit of photography as much as the spirit of exploration.  What good is it to drive six hours only to be drenched by a deluge in payment for the effort?

I feel overwhelmed by needing to do anything.  And what I want to do?  That’s a nebulous, vacuous chasm that threatens to swallow me whole—so I avoid it all costs.

Writing this post took me two hours.  How’s that for pathetic?

Yes, I’m at a loss.  For words.  For inspiration.  For energy.  For everything.

Simply and utterly at a loss.