32 Days of Christmas: Day 23
Today is Monday—but you already know that.
What you might not know is that I loathe Mondays. They’re the worst day of my week. Not because of work or anything like that; it’s just that I never seem to have any energy on Mondays. I’m sluggish; dragging myself by the heels every single time. I often wonder how people manage to smile on a Monday morning.
What you might also know is that this series has been running for three straight weeks now. Unless you’re new here. In which case, welcome. Make yourself at home. I’d offer you an Irish or a Scotch in true festive spirit, but times are tough, and I’m far too slothful today. Help yourself to some water instead.
I don’t want to sound dramatic; I really don’t. But the ink in my pen has run dry. The taps of my creative well have dripped their last drop.
I am barren.
I am exhausted.
You readers are tired too, I know. I don’t want to do this any more than you want to read it.
Writing every day is fun and all, but writer’s block is real. And it came as expected. December is a time when everyone is out there doing anything and any thing but reading.
And it shows, because this piece is struggling to get out of bed. It doesn’t want to be seen by the world. It’s afraid the world won’t care that it exists. Maybe it knows that I don’t really want to write today either.
My hands, however, are already caressing the worn-out buttons of this old laptop. But my heart is somewhere in Karachuonyo, doing anything but writing.
You’ll probably read this while I’m deep in Luo land, inhaling the scent of hot dung at dawn. But don’t worry, I’ll be sniffing it with satisfaction. Fulfilled that I wrote something. I’m allowed to sniff anything, because I’ve done my part.
Go do something too—something that’ll make for a weird story to tell your grandkids one day. They’ll probably have robotic cows by then. Cows that never give fresh dung.
Poor kids.
✍🏽Reagan.