A Writer's Block

Pick it up! Now put it right back down. Can't think up unseen realities when restricted--by necessity--to putting hands on the here and now.

Drawing from the well of life's tragedies and inspirations often reaps a dissatisfied gasp of brokenness--and regaining equilibrium means first inhaling what was given and then letting survival have its way in exhalation as the sun goes down on yet. another. day.

Hope ain't in sunrise or rainbows--there is just a daunting awareness of lengthening shadows of another day just starting--and what comes with it. Always waiting. And coming.

Puff.

Hold it in.

Now pass.

Gone are the days when characters had conversational whispers in the air, with dialogue only impacted by the swirl of dust and books in empty library aisles and stained seats on city buses--spots held with bookmarks and sweats of water.

Tomorrow has little meaning.

Neither does the anticipation of 'one day.'

Because one day comes, it's guaranteed to bring heaviness with it. The kind of heaviness that couldn't be disposed, just misplaced--going back and forth from one aching wrist to the other in the hands of a carrier accustomed to his and her baggage. No one ever asks to slow down. Its usually SPEED UP! with leg weights.

So yes....dreams can be the sticky residue left on the bottom of worn, once trendy sneakers. Scraped and dragged from place to place--not removed by the natural elements but not real useful either. Rarely noticed except when an imprint gets left in unexpected, but cleaner locations.

Sometimes it would be nice to be able to sit, stare off into the distance, and remember what could have been while thinking of what once was. But that is a luxury only paid for with tears that would leave one bankrupt if not careful.

Best to fill up on the knowledge of TODAY, tuck away what's relevant while resolving to bury that which isn't...pack it down tight inside the many stories in the backyard of memories long forgotten. Dead whimsy long since covered by the barely there fuzz of envy for those who are allowed to tap out the rhythm of their heart beats---and dance in between raindrops.

A no man's land.

And no music here neither.

Just us--shuffling and moving one after another. Clocking in. Clock out.

Rinse. Repeat.

No whine.

Written by: Y's Becoming

Eye-level view of an open notebook with a pen and a cup of coffee