My pen has lain flat with still ink for near three weeks now.
Why? Because I’ve claimed to be void of inspiration.
I’ve been lacking motivation to form a compilation of my feelings, thoughts, or observations of the life I live or the world that surrounds me.
How can nothing astound me to the point of compounding my awe into art?
Writing too much based on a human muse might quickly be confused with obsession…
but nothing else lately has left an impression enough to force my heart to spill and my hand to form script.
So should I write about the man of which my heart belongs until something else exciting comes along?
As Bukowski said, “If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.”
But I’m getting sick of waiting!
Why? Because I’ve claimed to be void of inspiration.
I’ve been lacking motivation to form a compilation of my feelings, thoughts, or observations of the life I live or the world that surrounds me.
How can nothing astound me to the point of compounding my awe into art?
Writing too much based on a human muse might quickly be confused with obsession…
but nothing else lately has left an impression enough to force my heart to spill and my hand to form script.
So should I write about the man of which my heart belongs until something else exciting comes along?
As Bukowski said, “If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.”
But I’m getting sick of waiting!
*Amber
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