Been away. Not travelling; just absent. Been away. Again. But this time my feet stayed in the same place. My muse went away. Again. Was it my fault? Of course … but I guess she needs space too, to visit her own sources of inspiration. Away.
While I dallied, uselessly, and useless, between weak guitar runs and wet days that leaked bad energies. Nothing came. Nothing came out right. Again.
Did it ever?
Been surrounded by books, often my favourite company. New stories, plots, characters, facts, you’re a reader you know what I’m saying … but everything was going in,
no sparks, no fires being set off, no leaps of disjointed thingummywhatsit coming together.
No bl”%*y writing!
Couldn’t see the thoughts for the iron?
The phases of the moon … which was honey when it should have been bone?
Bad karma, not enough sleep, not enough you know what else, too much this, too many that … and introspection never pays the going rate.
I smile to think it, but patience is over-rated, just sometimes has to be enough.