Friday, 22 November 2013


It’s not a block
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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