a few scattered thoughts

I pull out three folded purple post-its from my purse, filled with scribbled words I thought breathed of poetry at 10 am when my mind strayed from the job aid I was eeking out in scattered keystokes. Unwrapping them now, I search between the lines for inspiration but the thought is gone, energy emptied in three meetings between 1 pm and 3, typing one-line emails to my coworker in a neighboring cube. I'm restless...

My writing lately has accumulated into a pile of creased post-it notes, five lines stashed in the upper left corner of Word documents saved in my "misc." folder. The story I'm working on sits with paragraphs of scene summaries, but the strands of plot seem like stray threads that pull out when I tug at them.

I wonder if other recent grads feel like this: like I'm thirteen again, all angst and acne, trapped in a body I can't quite figure out, filled with warring desires for the past simplicity of childhood and the autonomy of growing up.