Its 2am, and my muse woke me whispering metaphors of apology that bore remembering…
Dear blog, there is no time to think. No time to birth thoughts or concepts to purge onto the page. No time to take correlating pictures to stories I wish to tell. No time to fathom fictional ideals worth repeating.
Dear books, you will have to tell your stories to someone else, for my mind is preoccupied with the lives of the ones who wrote you. Shelley, Keats, Coleridge. Mournful pieces of nature’s metaphorical sorrow, that I am dissecting daily. Yet I am not reading my own, nor writing them either.
Dear collective interests, you have become a ghost town within me. The pieces of lifes puzzle bear more need than your still sealed, 1000 piece box. Life’s demands require I stitch them just so, jumping through its own hoops, before I am again able to cross threads in yours. The shutter of my mind must collect snap shots of educational material before I am able to fill rolls with inspiration.
My education has become all consuming, fat, like a maggot over indulging on flesh. Ignoring the bone, the structure of that previous life. There is little more to consider, than the hum drum, the repetition, the mindless continuation of following that pattern of consumption. It’s survival, and little else.
One day, I tell my self, after every beneficial piece of knowledge has been consumed, I will bloom from this decay of what I once knew. I will grasp again at those bones, and resurrect the ghosts of my longing. I will write, read, and fulfill my inspirations for the sake of my own pleasure. Hold tight, dear self, there is light at the end of this consuming darkness. This decay of self will dwindle, like the harsh unending winter, and life will follow thereafter.