I am at the office, feeling restless, and so I decided to write. Actually, I was listening to another new record, trying to catch up on some albums- I always feel like I am playing catch up- and I was almost done when I listened to "Smoke Rings" from the artist, Dri.

Who's in your heart is not always who's in your bed.

The first line of lyrics made me want to write. So I did.

I won't write about who is in my bed, or who is in my heart. I am not that kind of writer. I can't put my feelings of love into words, on paper or in person. It's probably why I am habitually, by choice, single. The songs on "Smoke Rings" held me past the first piercing line of truth. Although the sequencing of tracks is disjointed going into the second track, I got past it- but artists make a note that sequencing is important, especially if you claim to make albums and not just songs.

Indria is a radio and Itunes commercial ready track: catchy beat, dreamy vocals, texture through out. Inspiration has the soulful sound of 60's Motown. Skip Free Tonight; its a bad feel of Paula Abdul meets indie. Well I might take back everything, the album has declined, and the title track Smoke Rings, written by Ned Washington, barely saves the ending.

Just as everything else I examine lately- promising, disappointing, barely making it by, and left with a mediocre Ehhhhh.

What to do. Expand on the dissatisfaction and disjunction of my current status.

---> Turning points are supposed to hold something better and different around the corner. But I can't get myself around the corner. I am stuck. I can feel a change. I know I need something different. Nothing. Just anxiety.

Maybe it's the weather. Or maybe it's just me.

Me.

Not wanting to write. Feeling blase. Spiraling. Hangnails. Heavy shoulders. Fog. Frustration. Why. Cause. Effect. Cure. Persistent. Frigid. Unhealthy. Determination. Hindrance.

Independence is a nice way of lying about being alone.

I have got to get out of here.