Writer’s Blockville. Population? Me.

That place.  Yes, that one.  That dark, empty, uncomfortable place.  That curse that drums at your head and chews away at your time.

The desire and the opportunity is there.  The pencil is in hand, the page is blank.  The keyboard is full of buttons, waiting to be pressed.

But the words are elusive.  You try to run them down, but they slip away like a greased pig.  You try to force them out, only to discover that what you knew would happen, has –

They’ve fallen flat.  And you hate them.  You can hit save and come back to them later.  But you know that you’ll still hate them then.  Because they were forced and not born – not breathed into life.  Soulless.

Pencil to paper

such a simple thing…

but the mind

is blank.

No

………words

will

…emerge

from

………………………their

………………………………………………………………………………slumber.

Decisions

“Where are you going?”

(To a fair autumn pasture with a wind that filters through your hair and blows you into the valley.)

“Well…I guess…I don’t know where I’m going.”

(To a quiet place.  A seat of rock in a clearing in the woods, where the sun smiles down through the leaves.)

“When will you decide?”

(On an early spring morning.  At a pond along a dirt road.  A pair of binoculars around your neck, a new bird to be seen hidden amongst the cattails.)

“I don’t know.  I don’t know where I’m going.  I only know where I came from.”