I’m sitting here, at my desk, cursing myself for thinking I could write a post after I got home late from work. I don’t understand why I continue to think that I can make words magically appear, that I can craft and create, that I can write a few sentences down in haste. That’s not how I operate. I need to contemplate, I like to refine.
Lately, my mind won’t work when I want it to. I beg and plead, I ask the script to appear clear and prompt, but my imagination retreats. It reveals itself at the most inauspicious times. Inspiration is fickle. Some days it walks in and says hello, crashes into me like a lightning bolt. Most days, it sits in the corner, quietly waiting its turn. Plans are scrapped, molded into other shapes. Time has evaporated, turned to smoke and I have failed to capture it, bottle it up.
Why? Why is this happening? Why can’t I control it? I’m tired of continually complaining about this and I’m sure you’re sick and tired of hearing it. Something has to change, plans need to be made. Tomorrow, I will clear my schedule. I will repeat this mantra in my head, “Write. Write. Write. Write. Write.”