Somewhere in the hidden modules of my mind I know the meaning of the month of May. But then I knew the meanings of the end of March and April and the waiting till September too.
Submission deadlines; no one reads in summer.
So this "writer" doesn’t write. As if the deadlines of a magazine could hold a writer back or spur him onward. Maybe sometimes–I know in fact it can and sometimes does. Not now though. Not now.
Just as with a set of brightly colored, stamped with letters of the alphabet on each sided blocks, once I played with joyfully but do not now. Routines become foreign when abandoned; uncomfortable at best and at their worst, incomprehensible.
May now merely means the next month’s June.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology