You're Usually Handed A Fork When You Need A Spoon

Here I am again, racking my brain about, trying to find something worthwhile to write. As is usual I am failing miserably. Hindsight, that old soul wagging a finger at us saying "I told you so" is such a pervasive influence on me now that I'm stuck in a rut most of the time, second guessing myself about each decision I'd have to take that it just makes everything all the more confusing. I've found this to be the bane of my existence, this freezing and choking on the verge of good things to come.

I had done more than half a dozen restarts on this blog hoping to recapture the clarity I felt when I wrote before, but I'm still unable to find meaning or direction in what I wanted to do. My life is collapsing around me, like ice shelves. Falling into the sea as they melt under an unending assault from the sun. Yet writing holds no rope or hope of catharsis, love is stripped bare of all its assumptions ; strong yet inexplicably unhelpful to my further despair. All the ghosts of past lives are walking in the living room, having gotten free of the closet - chatting with the spirits of the present. But none go out the door so I can grieve and rest.

I can't find my muse. Maybe I've been trying too hard. And as they say, you're given a spoon. When all you needed was a fork.

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