It’s more like a
drought
It’s as though I’m
on the wrong side of a glass wall, a frosted glass wall
I can see shapes
but no detail
Perhaps I’m done, a
small voice cries – a disloyal, mean
small voice – I pay it no heed
Then another voice
says ‘Try something new’, and ‘Start over’
That one I take seriously. Another genre, perhaps even under a new name
The idea excites
me, intellectually, but still the drought
Then I think of the
brain fog I got last month after the antibiotic
Perhaps, though I’m
not even aware of it, it’s still there, frosting up my window on my world, on
my imagination
Perhaps I should just
forget about writing, enjoy the glorious early summer days, walk on the beach
with the dogs
I should feel grateful to be alive and well, living in such a beautiful
corner of the world
When the time is right
the glass will clear
I have to believe that
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