Stream of Consciousness

I don’t know, I don’t understand it, it’s like background music playing in my head, always playing, always there, but I’m not quite aware of it anymore and those sounds, those notes, they used to be words and the words would simply flow and the story would come out of me, telling itself to me, to the world, to everyone who cared to look, that I could soar in the air with these simple letters that came one after the other through no effort of my own. It’s so hard when they are gone, or when they are there, but not strong enough to break through with any type of coherence or cohesion or anything that can make sense on paper. It’s like having a broken pen that only leaks ink, but not the author’s life’s blood. Stab me in the heart and I will bleed you a story. That’s the way it used to be.

Words, words, words, they’re just nonsense on a page, and yet I still want to make them mean something, make people want to read them, make people laugh and cry and snort and exclaim loud enough that their spouse or child comes in from the next room demanding to know the why of that reaction. I want to give my words out again, but they’re gone, just gone, gone, gone. And it’s not writer’s block. It’s so far beyond writer’s block because I can still put words together, obviously I can, but the muse that tells the story doesn’t let imagination come into it, because she’s so far gone she’s not even living on the same planet anymore.

And I think maybe I’ve lost it, that five good years was all I was going to be given. It’s more than some people can even hope for. I look at what I’ve produced and how much I loved it and how I truly feel like a bird who will never be able to fly again and I loved the flying, the words falling from each down stroke of my wings, the pen, the typewriter, the laptop.

It’s come before. It’s gone before. It’s come again, and gone again, so I know that it can, but it just isn’t. I want to fly. I want to scream and shout and beg the universe to give back what it has so blithely taken away. I want to dance in streams beneath waterfalls and let my hair drag down to my waist and see the moon above me and find that elusive thing, that maddening crazy thing, that magical, mystical thing that brings life to what I write, that allows me to tell stories, that puts little pieces of my soul into the words that pound out of my keyboard, in the words that I breathe and speak into  the darkness.

Where do you get your ideas? So often asked, so often answered. They just come to me. Only now they don’t. Now they don’t. A broken muse, a broken heart, and broken wings. I want to soar again, to stay aloft, to not come down. I miss the days of not coming back down. I want them back. All of them. And my words. For without my words I have no voice left to speak with, and nothing left to say.

Stream of Consciousness

I don’t know, I don’t understand it, it’s like background music playing in my head, always playing, always there, but I’m not quite aware of it anymore and those sounds, those notes, they used to be words and the words would simply flow and the story would come out of me, telling itself to me, to the world, to everyone who cared to look, that I could soar in the air with these simple letters that came one after the other through no effort of my own. It’s so hard when they are gone, or when they are there, but not strong enough to break through with any type of coherence or cohesion or anything that can make sense on paper. It’s like having a broken pen that only leaks ink, but not the author’s life’s blood. Stab me in the heart and I will bleed you a story. That’s the way it used to be.

Words, words, words, they’re just nonsense on a page, and yet I still want to make them mean something, make people want to read them, make people laugh and cry and snort and exclaim loud enough that their spouse or child comes in from the next room demanding to know the why of that reaction. I want to give my words out again, but they’re gone, just gone, gone, gone. And it’s not writer’s block. It’s so far beyond writer’s block because I can still put words together, obviously I can, but the muse that tells the story doesn’t let imagination come into it, because she’s so far gone she’s not even living on the same planet anymore.

And I think maybe I’ve lost it, that five good years was all I was going to be given. It’s more than some people can even hope for. I look at what I’ve produced and how much I loved it and how I truly feel like a bird who will never be able to fly again and I loved the flying, the words falling from each down stroke of my wings, the pen, the typewriter, the laptop.

It’s come before. It’s gone before. It’s come again, and gone again, so I know that it can, but it just isn’t. I want to fly. I want to scream and shout and beg the universe to give back what it has so blithely taken away. I want to dance in streams beneath waterfalls and let my hair drag down to my waist and see the moon above me and find that elusive thing, that maddening crazy thing, that magical, mystical thing that brings life to what I write, that allows me to tell stories, that puts little pieces of my soul into the words that pound out of my keyboard, in the words that I breathe and speak into  the darkness.

Where do you get your ideas? So often asked, so often answered. They just come to me. Only now they don’t. Now they don’t. A broken muse, a broken heart, and broken wings. I want to soar again, to stay aloft, to not come down. I miss the days of not coming back down. I want them back. All of them. And my words. For without my words I have no voice left to speak with, and nothing left to say.