Stuck to the Max

This morning, I feel like flinging myself under a bus. Creatively speaking. My brain has gone into level four lock-down. I am anxious. Resistant to working. Feeling guilty about not going for a run. And not wanting to. If Pizza Hut delivered at 10 a.m., I'd be neck-deep in extra cheese right now.

Last night before one of the Top Ten Worst Sleeps Ever, I prayed for flow. I asked that my energy be aligned so I could tap into the river of creative energy that is always there and always flowing.

And then I couldn't sleep. Boyfriend decided to write the longest email of all time in bed with the light on. The sound of his typing entered into my brain, took up residence and morphed into Vietnam War machine gun fire. The upstairs people got home late and had a combat boot clog dancing competition on the hardwood floor above my head. Then, in the morning Boyfriend let the alarm go for a full hour, pressing snooze over and over and over, leaving me in a crack-addled half-sleep. He finally got up and left for his conference.

But then the guilt set in. I have a thing about not sleeping in. Sleeping in equals laziness in my world. Pathetic. I'm exhausted.

And that large order of creative flow I ordered? Not happening.

There is a distinct possibility that creative flow is waiting for me someplace else. There is a chance God-given inspiraton is waiting for me at the end of that run I'm avoiding. It could be waiting in the cute coffee shop down the street, halfway down a cup of dark roast. There's also the possibility that it's hanging out at the famous Portland Saturday Market down in Old Town. It ain't here in this dark-ass basement apartment. I can tell you that much.