I have some wonderful horses.
Even in their winter woolies
and pasture uglies, I think they are fine.
I can't remember the last time I brushed them.
They are my dream and I stay away. I cannot explain this funk I am in now. Go ahead, tell me, jerk myself up by the boot straps. Get over it! Slap some sense into me, please.
I love to paint yet I do not pick up a brush. I love to write and this is the extent of it. I love to read and I cannot concentrate. I am a worker and yet I am lazy. My emotions are flat lined.
Any words of wisdom for this old lady?