It’s strange, isn't it?
Sitting with a pad and pen,
Finding you have nothing to say?
A lifetime of memories, a treasure chest
Of untapped emotion, a perfectly active imagination,
And yet, nothing.
The sword is finally pulled from the scabbard.
No target in sight.
It is inconceivable that writer’s block
Would ever happen to anyone.
Okay, so no pretty prose.
You’ll never carve a single passage of true poetry.
But do you not have something to say, anything at all?
It is not so simple.
Writing is an act of divination.
You feel the joy of relief,
Or it’s still in there, thrashing around and breaking the furniture.
What do you want to say?
Tell the world a story?
Reveal the divine in our comic and trivial endeavors?
Go for the big revelation,
The "what’s it all about?”
And how do you plan to do any of that with words?
There will be no lotus sutra -
No sequence of words I can string together
Will open up your mind,
Like a prisoner set free at last.
They are just words.
They may become a toy that no one plays with
Or the rope that hangs me.
Ha! Losing sleep over writer’s block!
Are misery and exhaustion their own rewards?
Invaluable slumber bartered for blank page or a blinding screen.
All I have to show
Are these clues you use to track me down.
These pages contain hints and traces:
Smoke from extinguished campfires - butts in the ashtray - footprints in the snow.
Read, and you’ll know where I’ve been.
You already know where I’m headed.
I will meet you
At the exact moment late at night
Before you realize that it’s morning,
Or when you stare at the stars
And receive only silence.
Through the vast reaches of blackest space,
Can you hear me?
From the first gasp to the final sigh, you’ve been with me all this time.
Please don’t leave me with nothing to tell you.
I’ve waded through the centuries to do this, to write these very words!
it’s me my dear / again / like i’ve always done / a simple thank-you letter / nothing more.