My words are not so poetic these days.
The words I string together that would drip with sweet metaphors and glided descriptions which flow in perfect harmony have been replaced with a blunt tongue and harsh reality along with predictable patterns and placement.
There is nothing beautiful here to read. Not right now.
Will there ever be again?
Have I lost my ability to resonate, to touch the depths of another’s mind and heart, to inspire and motivate, to write anything of substance? It sure feels like it.
So here I sit, caffeinating and hoping I can jar loose some words filled with meaning, and in the right order.
Right now, at this moment, I doubt my very existence as a creative writer.
I have so many stories yet to write, but the words keep getting stuck in my head. Those that do find their way to the screen and paper are all but lost in translation. It is incredibly frustrating, and I can’t even find the words to explain that.
This void of incompleteness has my mind spinning and skipping like a broken record. I am a complete mess of noise and clutter in my creative mind. There is no sweet surrender to the creative voices inside me – one cannot surrender to that which doesn’t seem to exist anymore.
Perhaps it is time for a new Muse since my current one is missing in action – probably got tired of whispering ideas to me and waiting for me to translate them from the abstract.
Where is my grand symphony, my great manifesto, my New York Times bestseller – it’s all floating right out of my reach. What then is to be my legacy?
I can fashion the lining of my coffin with the crumbled up, the half-written, and the blank pages of my suffering to find the right words in the right order.
This is the slow torturous death of a creative mind… of a writer.
And so I sit here, bleeding, as Hemingway suggested.