Stacks of backlog posts, folders of photos waiting to see the light of the editing wand and that process of cherry picking like a pageant contest where they would shriek in high pitches over the crowning moment to be on the post, and notebook jottings are just everywhere.

It is that time again, that most dreaded time.

The time when the muse has gone on vacation and forgotten all about her responsibilities.
To me.

It is just that time when nothing seems to meet the eye when I try to plan and write my posts; a time of dread which I hate because it plunges me (against my will) into that pit of stale crumbs spelling UN-productive.

I have noticed that I have these seasons; and I have come up with a name for that.

The Blogging Dead.

Yes, just like the Walking Dead, except that this happens in my blogging world and I don't enjoy that fortune made from the success of the production and merchandise made of entirely prowling zombies roaming season after season.

Life just isn't fair.

If I had a cent for every time I had the Blogging Dead season, well, no, I still won't land myself enough to mend that patch on my favorite shoe.

Because a cent in my country is worthless, and well, that would also say that I don't have that many "dead" sessions to begin with.

Which is a good thing, either way.
Depending on whether you are referring to the cent or the deaths.

It is not that I don't want to write, I just want to but then I am just so annoying when it comes to proof reading and I ended up rejecting all my own posts; discarding almost every single one because I didn't like them.

It just didn't sound right, or I just wasn't in the mood.

Believe me, I was writing a post every single day and I just banned the post from appearing on the blog.
On purpose.
Like the censorship board.

I'm fastidious when it comes to writing.
My own writing.

Then again, the muse is not entirely to be blamed.

There is that part where the Walking Dead comes into the picture and really plays its part; where I am dazed by the effects of the bouts of stuffy nose and dry cackling in the throat like that old caretaker in an old mansion yet having to drag my feet and crinkle my nose to swallow yet another pill, hoping that the magic would work in making them go away.

Therefore it is just understandable that the muse would just crawl into her hiding hole to avoid the contagions from muddling her dear old mind.

Shirking her responsibilities, not much, when there is that solid rock of reason to fall back upon.

There is really nothing to worry, for like the Walking Dead, this is just that reality show that happens once in a while and I have noticed that experience have sprung me back faster every time.

After all, death is not the end, for there is always resurrection.

Otherwise, what's good ol' Hollywood gotta live by?

Rambling from my Monday blues....in between that sneaky spell of coughing creeping up on me, that I have my own Blogging Dead episode now, and maybe, just maybe, I could make something out of it soon.


On the way to resurrection, resuscitation a success....Beep Beep...