It’s back…my inner ineptitude has proliferated exponentially to the point that at this current juncture I am unable to write anything worth a shit. It’s literally been months now. Blank canvases aren’t meant to remain blank, they are supposed to represent the playground of the furtive mind, the basin that captures the glorious liquid gold of continuously evolving ingenuity that overflows from our consciousness. Except the tap has run dry…the hose that delivers that sublime creative lyrical caviar must have a fucking kink in it somewhere.
So I’m at an impasse. Yes I’ve tried to rectify it; spending hours writing thousands of words of fictional detritus, some amusing, some complicated, some even mildly interesting, but none worthy of review. And therefore, I sit in perpetual wonder, surveying the barren landscape of my creativity and questioning whether the last couple of years of blossoming inventiveness were merely a short oasis of agreeable wordsmithery, in an otherwise tragically mundane existence.
But it’s happened before; the field has been fallow in the past and I suspect it’ll be fallow in the future, and I’ll still be there frantically churning the soil praying that it might successfully propagate some fruitful ideas. For now though, I’m stuck writing this bollocks.
