Itching and scritching

A blank page and a flashing cursor that itches and scritches at the psyche, begging to be booted along the page and be displaced by the developing prose. So I sit here trying to oblige, yet somewhat at a loss as to what should come next.

I drift forward in time, moored by my minor hobbies, commitments to family and friends, the toil that pays the bills, and the drudgery of domestic chores. It isn't a bleak existence. It is mildly pleasant and satisfying. A low stress, low risk strategy which will carefully transport me from here to eternity.

What about the paths untraveled? The adventures I could have? I could be and do so much more. Why don't I? When did I change my outlook and set my sights so low?

I do know the answers to those questions. I am where I am, doing what I do by conscious choice. Divorce and disease. These two daemons brought on my bunker mentality. I've chosen my current location and path.

Safety. Security. Comfort. Routine.

But what if I were to shake it all up?

I could.

I know I could.

I'm a little scared now.

This cursor dragging me forward.

It is taking me to unexpected places.

I think I'll scuttle back to my comfort zone.

But the cursor is inside me now.

Itching and scritching.

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