Friday, May 3, 2013

Writer's Block

It's right on the edge, toes kicking dust and stones plunging over, falling, spiraling, diving down into oblivion, falling through to the otherside to these words.  The idea, it's not ready to take the leap.  I can feel it's presence there, the trembling, making my heart beat a little faster, my skin tingle, the rapture working it's way from the center of my cells and bursting out like the first rays of sunlight.

But the idea, it is non-committal.  It doesn't know the effect that it has on the rest of me as I sit here, trembling and glowing.  I can't force it, if I try it will rip apart, exploding into a million pieces and splattering all over the inside of my mind.

I try to nudge it, fill it with confidence, but it won't make the leap.  It won't come.  It keeps dancing around the rim.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, sending a wave of calmness through my system.  The idea dances to a dirge.  No matter how hard I try, I can't convince it of providence; immortality.  The transformation of it's soul from fleeting electrical impulses to ones and zeros.

But I can't force it.  If it won't make the leap, then it will inevitably be forgotten, idea Hell.

I plug in my headphones and put on There Satanic Majesty's Request and know that as much as I want to be in control of my thoughts, they have free will.

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