It is like pulling teeth with a screwdriver. Writing that is. I’ll have these tendrils of an idea that I try to grasp and spin, but it runs from my hands like slippery sinew. I hesitate and cower at the helm with pen in hand, waiting to scribble something better than nothing. But I pause and tremble at the thought. Why?
Because I’m not who I used to be, and the shell of what I’ve become is dry and brittle. My mind is something else nowadays, too, that leaves me shielding away from what i dream of doing on a daily but still I hesitate and leave it bare.
It’s not that I’m incapable, I’m nervous of what I’m capable of or not now, anxious that it’s senseless dribble seeking an ear, meaning to be read. I wait. Take the pen to paper and let it go. The everlasting joys of writing eeks out like a clogged fountain pen spurting out bits and pieces. It’s not effortless anymore. I take to that helm so delicately, nervous that I’ll pierce through the otherside looking for a better route but that’s not right. Is it?
It clammers at the head, chisels at my heart and begs to be splayed out. What to do?
C’est La Vie
NOSCE TE IPSUM
Dream Dark Stories 