Been unwilling or unable to write much lately. Scattered, and I think I may be doing it to myself, to keep myself from thinking/feeling something. A vague sense of foreboding tickles the fringe of my heart and mind. Until it is born, I may be able to do little more than wait. Or I may be trying to keep that sense from becoming something fully formed, something I have to face or run from.
My birth required induced labor. Even then, I wonder if there was something I didn't want to face. Little wonder that my intuition and my very soul struggle with the same tendency.