I find myself with this blank canvas in front of me. My fingers reach out and stroke the empty page. I touch my head and then my heart and wonder where it went . My mind goes back to days of walking the parks and in the field or woods, and the way that poetry seemed to flow through my heart and mind. I purchased a voice recorder just to capture all that came when paper and pen were not available.
Now it seems the well has run dry. They say there is no such thing as writer’s block, and maybe that is true. Maybe my writing is just being expressed in other ways. Through quilting maybe.
I read books, and hope that the creativity that created them, the colorful black print upon the page can inspire me and like a pile of dandelion fluff lying on the ground all dormant, be brought to life and fly to the wind by this stirring.
Breaking open the jar of honesty, I am hit with the aroma of the truth. I am bored with me. Bored with the stories that I tell.
When I went to work, I walked into the office where I sit for pay. I felt like a stranger amidstfamiliar faces. My desk seemed to push me away, as if it, too, was sick of the way I used it and the things i used it for.