As i sit at my writing desk to do just that, it becomes tragically clear: i can’t.
Day after day i sit, while my ink turns dry as my mouth in unanswered anticipation.
My mind, full of urgency, sends a million ideas racing under my skin desperate to be seen but they flood and drown and come out in a slow, death drizzle.
These ghosts of unfinished ideas linger in the air, offering me their whispered seduction while refusing the confinement of the lines on my page.
these lines. my pages. the seduction. those half-formed ideas. all crumpled in a corner of my closet as i curl up beside them to stay warm.
“maybe.” offers a wise friend, “you should try a different modality”
and so i felt alchemist faeries and invent recipes that stitch us together.
i read and i read and i read without any expectation except escape.
i mix paint and stir pancakes simultaneously on Sunday mornings.
i run and i bike and i walk and i sit and i breathe in four breaths and out eight.
and i relent to the logistical analytics of monotony.
i sink into work and take breaks at the break of dawn, hanging sock by sock by dishcloth on the clothesline and fall asleep in the wee hours of the night surrounded by sun-drenched dreams.
i pluck out patches of time for myself by plucking the tiniest of leaves from my patch of thyme.
the pages remain crumpled
and the thoughts remain ghosts
and the urgency still bubbles
and ink stays as dry as my mouth.
but the breath comes easier
and the faeries feel their way.
and words seem less important .. sort of..
four breaths in and eight breaths out.