There are times I have been exhausted, or frustrated, or both and have contemplated collecting all my pens and pads and sitting them aside and just stopping this thing called writing. It has some years happened that I reach such a point two or three times. But I never have. I can’t tell you what has stopped this process from proceeding to the box point, but it is probably something in my internal system that ultimately throws up a block.
People have spoken of writing in the context of breathing. They can’t live without it. Maybe there is an internal mode that throws up a stop sign when I get in this kind situation and will simply not allow me to shut down.
So, I thought this would be a good point in time to list a few reasons that I have to write as I move into the new year. So, here is my list:
If this day should be longer, I would have to ask it to wait until you came back into the picture. Such absence is far more than empty. It is more than the sum of zero. It is beneath the standards for minimal nutritional value. It lacks the substance for meaningful existence.
Quote by P.B. Shelley
RANDOM THOUGHTS --
The time is set and the day is long and the work is piled and the will is shallow. The writing on the wall says the words of the prophets were plagiarized. People do care. People pay attention to the most minute details and find the discrepancies.
Only the interpretation is what mean anything to them. The factors are encased in a magnificent array of cautionary tales. On cannot separate the abundance of hope from the dreadful reality that exists inside a sponge. The chemistry, the physical manifestation of atoms altering one another are just too much.
I am sad tonight. I will be sad tomorrow. I have been sad before and yet I am helpless to abate it. I cannot explain what I cannot explain no matter how many times is is asked and in what new way. Call it a disease if you must. Call it a curse.
Call it at supper time to come and eat.
I lack the capacity not not. carry two burdens. It is not easy. It is not what I asked for. But it is real. The conventional wisdom is contrary to that. The truth is a note spike that assailed my hand with the last memo that said I'm sorry.
It is useless to pretend. I have pretended and the truth is heads and the coin lands on heads most of the time. I am not a Fulbright scholar. I can tell you that the head of a pin is no place for dreams. I can tell you that people are all deserving of liberty, though far too few have it.
I wrangle here with a heart beat and a feeling that. I am missing something. Maybe you have it. Maybe you don't. I can't be certain but my time is up.
Twitter is a poor dying bird. Realistically it should live but for one fact, The Trump alter ego. He has pierced it's heart with an acronym. It will fall from it's purch like a drunken sailor. Who will mourn the death of the blue bird?
Sometimes something reflects in a water puddle and it looks like charred bacon. That's how they make bacon bits. You can also make them from the blackened toes of the twitter bird. No, it's not very appetizing.
The saint and the sinner were in deep conversation. A Pharisee passed by and curtseed. On to convenience store he went to buy smokeless tobacco. It was a nasty habit, not the purchase but what he did with it.
Rain is forecast for last week but that can't be right. That would make it pastcast. I don't have the energy to argue the point, It will only bloom then wilt on the stem and what good is that?
The mention of Jazz gets mixed reviews. What is that Muskrat tweeting today? Someone needs to change his diapers before he gets it everywhere. The fact is, we have written all the best stories and now we have to write sequels. I have a sequined jacket I put on for such occasions. Are there any occasions you care to bring up?
Seeing no hands, I will continue and we will not pass out gloves. Bright rays of butter are coming down from above. Where is the popcorn? Where is the lard? Where have all the flowers gone? When will we learn. Who can we teach. Someone get the Muskrat. We can teach him a thing or two.
The side walk is covered in words written in chalk. Oh look, they are vulgar sayings; quotes from the Muskrat. Why does he have to devalue everything. I must get off this cycle and find a new detergent. No one can can save us from ourselves.
Michael Allyn Wells - notes & musings