It’ll be 2 years in May. It seems as though… as though all desire to make words seep from my brain to my fingertips has just taken flight to someone more deserving. It feels like every synonym and antonym has lost itself into some mess of misunderstanding.
I’d assume it’s something similar to when a child grows into a teenager, raises his status to “adult”, and soon after forgets what being a child was like altogether. I just wish I knew what happened to my imagination. It was once so bright and lively. It could describe the way a dragonfly can skim inches above the water of a small pond, making ripples that get washed away by a small boat being rowed by two teenagers discovering that love is real. He would call her his firefly. Claim she lit up his darkest skies. She would say it was all lies. Then a mention of her eyes. Something about sighs and highs, goodbyes, and all rhymes that ebb time into some paradox that seemed artistic.
But it’s all gone.
Every last bit of my ambition to write seems to be gone. How these words are making it past my brain is beyond me. Most everything I think seems to stay in my mind these days. I’d wish and hope for some miracle of longing to create an image from words again.
But alas, the words flow not.
The mind is gray.
The tongue has stayed it’s spewing of amusing aphorisms. The fingers have stopped the swift cadences and slashes, the ceaseless battle of ink and paper. The battle that ends in unison, as would be the general desire of most contention.
I just wish it were easy again. An artistic thought, a sudden urge to rush to the supermarket 2 blocks away, buy a pad of paper, a couple new pens, and sit in a dimly lit room until 3 a.m. until the eventual attempts at rest, though the mind still races with idioms and imagery, keeping the imagination vivid and cerebrum wired.

I suppose I’ll just wait until it returns, lest I become witless and bovine.