How do writers deal with not being able to write? Musicians would sing covers but writers can’t rewrite covers. Actors would play old sketches but writers can’t republish old material.
Writers are only true when they write… significantly. For the rest of their days and times they search for portals to take them back to that truth. Everything else is transitory. Everyone else is an escalator to the sun.
Words upon words from which a tavern this wayfaring scribbler may imagine and then remember his once upon a map of roads and odes.
Writers are never done writing... even when they say they are. Even when I imply I am writeless. It’s only a little matter of discord between my oracle and I. It is temporary. This will pass. I am pushing. I am pulling… myself, in both counts, towards her. She too will come.
Was it me or was it her? I always walked toward her. Maybe she always walked away and I only realise such visual oddities when I stop. I stopped not for contempt or insult, for in the face of inspiring muses those are petty sentiments. I stopped for air.
Oh dear Oracle, have I let you go? And what of words and terms you inspired? And even worse, what becomes of manifestos I desired?
O dear O, come back and speak softly or (yes I’ll compromise) just walk away slowly so I may run and it is me who is catching up with you. You may not feel contempt or insult, for in the face of bemused scribes to have those sentiments is to be petty. You stop (or slow) to remain fair. You may become rare but still a little there.
O my dear O, walk slowly and speak viciously. I want your rude with your sweet. I want all that you utter and think until I can write again and then you may leave and I may breath…. But let me know where you’ll be.