Everything I write lately would put cornflakes to sleep. I try not to force it; I know it never works. I just need to show up and maybe something will magically rise, like tiny rainbow Trix bobbing to the surface.
These empty vessels where spoons hold air and stomachs growl concern me. I hate it when things get silent, and I don’t know where my next artistic bite will come from. I’m old enough to know it’s not permanent but still all that blank milky space is taunting me. The cupboards seem bare.
Which is strange, because a bazillion boxes are filling my head. I have boxes crammed with experience, (raisin bran), boxes full of fields (shredded wheat), boxes full of wishes, (lucky charms). I have boxes stacked with laughter (cheerios), and old memories (quisp), and crazy ass neurosis (clearly cuckoo for coco puffs). Don’t even ask how many boxes I have of half empty commitment (hey kashi, why don’t YOU go lean?!).
You’d think with all those boxes something might just pour out. But I’ve not an alpha-bit of confidence in my ability to write these days. And just for kix I’d love it if, just once, I could skip over this part; the one where I’m staring at an empty bowl in a morning fog without any idea where the day will take me.
Maybe I need to break a few eggs, travel the world and eat some Weetabix, leggo of my ego. Not sure. But if you care at all, send me a little snap, crackle and pop, would you? I’m feeling entirely stale.
Starting Close 