The pages of my calendar slip away so deliberately that I think there must be some kind of conspiracy against me keeping track of time. I look up, it's been less than fifteen minutes on the clock. I go back to what I was doing, feel the weight of time, and check again to find that it's been two weeks, or tow months, or two years. Time is not something I watch closely. It is a companion, oft forgotten, and left to grow feral along the side of the road. It is not something I keep a close eye on.
Let me leave you this:
Four resonant strings
Accompany the singing
Playing my life's song
Where is my muse? Why can't she pop up when my heart is full and I am loving uncontrollably? Why does it take something to pull the drain plug on my soul in order to get something worth writing?
I'll ponder it some more, I think.
Let's hope it's not another four months before I write again.