Right

I rearrange furniture, place my computer on a side table by the window, spend the day staring into the neighbor's living room. I make another cup of coffee; it's been months since I had this much in one day. I tug at my long hair, which I normally can't stand to have let down. I put Mozart's Jupiter on repeat, sometimes interspersed with bursts of Symphony no. 9, it's good for the intense writing minutes. I realize I have to cancel all sorts of plans; this deadline kicks my ass. I remember what it is like to kick it back.

Too easily have I become complacent, thinking It may not be the best I can do, but it will have to be enough. Too easily have I forgotten the joy in words tumbling around my head until they find their right spot, the flow that forgets hunger, remembers coffee, ignores daylight. My roommate speaks to me and I do not hear. The clock ticks and I do not hear.

In the end, I believe it amounts to equal portions of despair and elation. I change positions a hundred times, delete, erase, rewrite, swear. My neighbor comes out on his terrace. I stare at him for ten seconds, take a deep breath. I begin to write, again.