8.25.2007 Writers Block

In the hours that lean towards morning, I write. Into the darkness my words tumble and lose themselves piece by piece, turning and spinning in and out of one another like taffy, stretched between the vendors hands while the sand grits salty between your toes at the boardwalk. Colorful bits without cohesion or sense. Nonetheless I write. The night provokes me and I chase after my words with greedy fingers, stabbing at ideas and bringing them gently to my mouth to taste, roll around my tongue then spit onto a page. If only I could follow one of these ideas to its end, I say. If only I had time to write, to read, to sing. In this dark morning, I push excuse out onto the street and sit for a moment, just me and my words. The more we sit together, the more I become afraid of them. I try to listen, to let them flow but the longer I listen, the less adequate I feel with them. Rather than sit with them, I feel as if I am sitting in front of them, on a pedestal, being asked to perform, being marked for each misspelling and fragmented sentence and… my personal challenge: the unfinished thought. The words I cant drift so smoothly in, but soon begin to infiltrate. These two words change the music, and my words saunter off, hand in hand with my doubt, winking over their shoulder at me, my hands stuck in taffy. Maybe tomorrow night will be better.