On an average day, a day where my muse is aroused and balanced with high strung energy, I will typically type my piece on a word document hours prior. Today is different. Today, the words I am currently furnishing are of this moment. This time. Right now. As close as time can possibly get. My words are coming from an unseasoned and tender portion of my mind.
I have now discerned why most famed and notable authors often go astray. Roaming our greenest pastures, often trying to shape themselves into our societal structure. They will, time and time again, follow suit in humanity’s endless endeavor toward normalcy. Later they will come to find that the journey was not a journey. That the journey was a self constricting mask to hide the feeling of mediocrity.
That is how I feel today. Today the gift of gab has failed me. Though, it most certainly feels as though I have failed it. To no avail, I have typed words. Any words. Every word. In an attempt to articulate beyond the shrouded shadows eclipsing my mind. Every sentence I have materialized have evaporated into the summer humidity. The bulbous beam of light emanating in and through my window is not enough to revive the intangible words entombed in my privy sanctuary of a mind.
Now I am truly questioning if this gift is a gift at all. Perhaps, this supposed ‘gift’ I possess is an expletive malediction… a metaphorical punishment from a past life, if such a thing were to exist. My words are not eloquent in the manner of Plath or Cummings. They do not descend upon paper like deep pigmented leaves on an autumn day. They aggregate themselves in cherry bomb bursts or not at all.
Nevertheless, I persist. Refusing to let even a scintilla of doubt pervade any will I have to publish. Refusing to travel the road that many alike have traveled, the one that vehemently coerces those with an aptitude for metaphysical inquiries into a road of misery and ambiguity. I refuse.. I refuse.