Ice and Ivory Fur

It was another one of those evenings where too many things were left unfulfilled. Her body was craving things that it couldn't have or couldn't satiate. She thought about being creative, but couldn't work past the fatigue or the wear that pervaded her imagination. Instead, she flipped through the channels on her hotel room's standard definition, looking for something snarky and animated. It was certainly the right time of the evening, despite the difference in time zone. She dismissed what she had found and settled for documentary on the local PBS station. Something needled the back of her mind. The persistent thought to make an attempt at writing or drawing refused to be silenced. Even so, it was coupled with a draw sense of pointlessness that has long since lost it's vital sorrow. It felt like a dessicated, physic husk. She sometimes wished she could turn her back on the entire affair. That out of fear of failure, or disappointment of lack of success, she could package up the desire and dispose of it forever like the many Styrofoam food containers that littered the kitchenette's rubbish bin. Pointless, she thought, better not to waste the effort at all.