The cursor blinks, mocking me. I dance around it, trying to compose my thoughts. I fumble through them with clumsy fingers, teasing them out trying to find a common thread to pull it all together into something cohesive to share. Everything is a tired jumble and it seems like there’s nothing shiny to be polished and put on display. What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?
I falter. Do I even have something to say? What did my earlier narrative serve to do? When I started writing I was searching. I was looking for community and I found it. I was desperate for a way out of a professional life that no longer satisfied and I found it. I was looking for ways to put into words the inner stirrings and try to quiet my own displeasure at things not being as I wished they were. And now they are. The remaining concerns cannot be set into print at this time – maybe one day but surely not now.
It wasn’t always like this. It used to be easy. Why can’t it be easy again? It’s maddening. It’s like literary constipation.
I used to smear notes to start articles using my meat coated fingers as I prepared dinner, unwilling to lose a compelling thought, fearful it would evaporate and vanish like the boiling water on the stove. I had something to say. I had so much to say. I had a runaway train of thoughts and feelings and they poured from me onto the blank screen.
Now I stare at it and the cursor blinks and I blink back it slowly, trying to eke out the words to describe what I’m feeling and where I’ve been since. I draw from the well and hear the bucket scrape the bottom. The sound echoes and I dig deeper hoping to hear the sound of splashing water.
I’m still listening for the splashes and trying to pull together the pieces into a story that makes sense. The cursor blinks and so do I and that’s just how it is these days. That’s just going to have to be okay.