There are times when the pieces fit securely into place and all seems to flow in a great, expanding, steadfast and sturdy row. This, my friends and my dear self, is not one of those times.
I can hardly type 3 words without going back and editing. Misspellings abound. My writing seems jerky, careless and rushed.
I go out to get some needed fresh air and quite literally smack into life in all its awkward weirdness. The seconds tick and all I want is silence to coalesce the seeping, dripping globs into meaningful forms. Yet I am trapped into a silly cycle going nowhere fast. I feel the pull of my reaching mind against the dictates of expectations and niceties which supposedly grease the cosmic wheels.
Life seems scattered.
The links in my day all ajumble with knots and tangles collapsing in on themselves. Excited energy feels more like tension. The twisted snarls are taught and vibrating.
Collapse seems imminent. But there is no time for that indulgence.
As I mount the stairs the words fly from my brain and I have no net to catch them. Centrifugal force casts my thoughts back into the ethos. Sentence vapors, like condensation off fuselages in flight, dissipate before I can get pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.
The blob remains unformed before it ooozes through the cracks.
Then any remaining whiffs of melody are silenced by questions asked of me.
No time to go slow. No time to be meticulous. No time to ponder the great when the urgent and tedious is howling for resolution now.
One more “must” for the evening turned somehow to night.
Carve out the time before escaping into sleep to delve into someone else’s world of words for a while.
Their work is finished. It rests heavy in my hands. What is the secret to the binding up of the story? How does one not just finish but find the point of completion?