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I'm on the low end of the inspiration scale lately; I always seem to come up with things to say around 1am, and by then I'm always warm and cozy in the bed, with no desire to get up and wander around in the dark, banging my shins on things.

Two things are circling around in my head, lately: I want spring to be here, now. And I want to write all the time.

I can't remember a time before in my life that I yearned for springtime more than I do right now. I miss the flowers, and the sunshine, and the long Sunday afternoons where the sun creeps along the floor. I miss Piedmont Park, and having the windows open, and walking barefoot outside. Maybe I'm anxious for that new beginning feeling I get every spring, when the windows are open and a new breeze is blowing and I'm cleaning the whole house. I feel, inside, that it's time for a change, and I want the outside to reflect it. I'm tired of this frozen landscape; I want to be outside.

So often when I write I feel like a car that's just run out of gas - I'm writing, then slowly coast to a stop, and I can't keep going. I run out of whatever it is that keeps my fingers running over the keyboard and the words flowing from my head. It's something to work on, though I'm not sure yet how to do so.

But I picked up Ryan's guitar today, and felt pretty good about it when I did. Maybe that's something. I'll let you know.