July 29, 2017: Pest
Puo sat upright on his desk chair, staring down at blank pages with a pen in one hand, his other hand rested on his head while his legs bounced up and down in a frantic pace. About 40 minutes had passed and the pages were still blank. It was common for Puo to feel anxious before writing, but this time was different. In the past his anxiety had served as a perverse kind of motivator to get to work, but on this particular evening it was like an insidious pest, taking over his body one faculty at a time. Suddenly, Puo dropped his pen, lifted his head up and exhaled loudly. He closed his eyes, placed his hands on his thighs and breathed in and out in a consistent, melodic rhythm. He stayed that way for another 40 minutes. Puo then opened his eyes, picked his pen up, and began to write the story he needed to write if he were to write anything else in his life ahead.