It’s a horrible feeling when whatever ghost it is that animates writing takes leave of you for a spell. Leaves you numb, technical and without the sublime experience of an animated mind. Structure becomes the lifeless gatekeeper of the words I want to write, rather than their subtle and committed support.

Through a thousand new words in a new language, and none in my own.

And so it persists. Through German classes and days in the rain. Through a thousand new words in a new language, and none in my own. A path in the land of Mind grown feral under the sleepy weight of the unexceptional.

But the poems. Oh, the poems bring the old routes back!

The dirty pages, spoken and touched where I’d written it all in the times of plenty. Harvested and buried in plain sight. Bound the joys of a time to paper for the lost to find. A tiny train of inked breadcrumbs to lead me back from the tired places to those where life still dances.

Inspiration anew, or the memory of the sound of myself once more briefly restored. Whichever, the song returns. The ghost returns.

It sings once more.

And all is well.

Categories: Creative Writing

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