Would that I had the words to express what is in my mind at most given times. The thoughts alone cry out for representation, but the words can hide their voices from me. I have placed such weight on the shoulders of words, asking them to carry me up and over this terrain of shattered paragraphs. When the weight grows heavy and the thoughts cram close together, the words fail and I stumble along, able only to loose the single syllables upon the ground. Amazed that the thoughts remain clear, I am still at a loss for words. One string of words, a sentence, is all I ask. The single syllables rule my tired being. Like damn, and lost. To put them together to find the thought, they would run into each other…damn lost. The thought retreats as the words do not come and I am left again with nothing to help articulate the jumble of thoughts in my mind.
Then sometimes, the words fall to the page without effort, and all is not lost. The world again rotates and spins. Hemingway walks into Maxim’s at 3 Rue Royale in Paris and orders a round of drinks for all, his hands full of francs. Life is good while the sun touches the smoke smudged windows of the little cafe.
So long as my muse does not again abandon me for the coast…