Why I don't have anything to say . . .

Trudging through a desert, too tired to go forward, not yet ready to
give up. Parched and tired. The warmth melts my muscles; the dusts
makes me cry. There is a puddle where I sip just enough water to
keep me alive. It cools me enough to sleep. It washes the sand from
my eyes. it is not enough. It is not mine. But I look in every
direction and there is nothing to tempt me away, to give me hope that
a better puddle, an ocean, a river, a lake is within my lifetime I
have left in this desert. So I take what my puddle will give and try
to be satisfied. As I do that, I know the puddle is keeping me from
possible finding something sustainable, something that is there for
me fully, not just in drips and sips. But I don't. I've grown to
love my puddle and so I sit and wait.