Saturday, August 13, 2016

Four Months

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.


1 comment:

  1. Maybe you began writing as a way to deal with some painful emotions, and maybe you came up with some jewels from that deep, and so part of you associates writing with pulling pearls from a shell. But you can imagine anything, even if you're not going through it right now--you once did. And you will again. It's a well you can always pull from. <3