Some days I feel euphoric about my work. I revel in the accomplishment of filling what was once a blank space with ink and shaping ideas and emotions out of thin air.
Today is not one of those days.
Today I am mired in the sticky folds of my mind, caught between a thought and a dream. Unable to make something visible materialize. I would settle for a shadow.
Today I am detached.
Why should one day be a celebration and the next a forgotten appointment? If understood what makes the difference I would write into a poem (though my poetry could never capture it).
There is no cure for the detached, just as there is no cure for the euphoric. Both are equally dangerous to my writing, one fueling it with false bravado and importance, the other barely registering the need to press on and filling page after page with to-do lists and diary entries instead of actual thought.
Today I will press on, keep writing despite the lack of believe that I can, and fill the pages with, if nothing else, tears.
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