I want to write. I’ve wanted to do so since yesterday morning but couldn’t. My mind was empty and still is. I desperately want to write something profound, something worth being written; started several times; still am empty handed, uninspired. That usually is not the case. Frequently, a sentence, a phrase, an idea marches into my mind and demands to be brought on (electronic) paper. It demands attention and affection, wants to be caressed and sometimes amuses me so much that I cannot resist not using it to make somebody smile. Also, they are cocky. This weekend, however, I drew a blank.
In spite of that I laugh into the face of inspiration, yell “up yours,” and wait for its return. It always does, just like a cat or addict. Although, I am uncertain whether the latter is not it but rather me. There is nothing to fret about, and on the plus side I learned a little something about myself.
First, I cannot write with music on. Just about to turn it on my hand jerked away from the on button as if pushing the button would have killed me or worse. Perhaps my unconscious didn’t want to scare away the few words pouring – dripping – from my tiered mind. I need silence. Second, I need to write, I do.
My apologies for drivel. There has been worse…
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