"Inspiration...inspiration..."
I rub my temples, the smell of roasted onions and tomato sauce still persist in this house, when I cooked that dish at least three days ago.
And this head ache is obviously the siamese twin of that bastard writer's block.
I yawn at the cue of my dog, and place my favorite pen in between my lips. Then, with a brave and triumphant thrust towards the heavens I scream out defiantly
"INSPIRATION I SUMMON THEE!"
Several minutes pass
in that same outstretched position,
no pillar of light
no choir of angels.
"Fuck." I say as my pen dances ridiculously in my mouth. I've resorted to running my fingers through my bangs, over my exploding forehead.
The true sign of a desperate man.
Even though piano concerto's and solos are my mind's ambrosia, something holds those thoughts within. Something is corking the flow from brain to pen.
It's all this oppressive bullshit.
Y'know... that every day stuff.
Make dinner,
unclog the sink,
love me.
...where did that come from.
I'm alone now, unhappy, but better off.
Who dares question that.
Sensibility?
Lonliness?
Sarcasm?
Which one of you upstarts is causing trouble?
I'm melting away in my chair, sinking ever further, falling in.
Like some failed author soup,
no my consistency is more of a cheese sauce at this point. Oily, semisolid, and if left at room temperature, I'll set, and never leave.
It's the pulsing head aches fault today.
Not mine.
Something bluesy comes on the radio
after that classy sounding lady asked for another donation.
Its cool, like a river in early spring.
Clean, and clear, echoey... reminds me of that time at that waterfall.
It meant nothing.
To be there with you.
But... it did remind me of another.
And how much I missed her. I wonder if that makes me a bastard.
Or just damacles-
Maybe
no,
no maybe
I knew the fall was coming. I embraced it.
No matter how much blood was spilled.
And now
I have this sad solo rambling in my empty home, ending abruptly, spawning another unrelated emotion and composer.
A fresh start.
I guess that's one way of looking at it.
Is my radio talking to me again?
Or am I just reading my own subconcious?
Who cares.
This piece isn't as good, but at least its here.
