Entr’acte

I have nothing to say.  It’s irritating.

I have begun more than half a dozen posts, only to delete them into oblivion by clicking the “no” when asked if I want to save.

So, I turn to poetry, in many ways my preferred medium of expression.  But that’s worse.  I do manage to put something on the page but the words are clunky.  The metaphors are trite and unpolished.  The verse is clunky, like a train chugging into the railyard, getting the job done but just barely – neither art nor grace, nor poise, it just plods.  It stumbles on, step by unstressed step.

And I loathe plodding verse.

I wish I knew why, now that I finally have a forum to speak and write, I am so silent.  Maybe it’s because I’m just tired and weary of the questions a person asks day in and day out.  Or maybe it’s because I’m scared to take the next step, to ask the questions, to put myself out there.

I’m scared to make a mistake.

Or maybe it’s just because I have nothing to say. 

I have been struck in the past six months by how all my special-little-snowflake thoughts and worries aren’t really all that special.  Or rather, I’ve discovered many more eloquent people than I have put much more time and thought into these questions.  And have much better answers in much more alive prose than I can muster.

On some level, it’s a relief to know there are people who aren’t me thinking about these things.  It’s good that the world (or at least a niche of the internet world) is questioning, engaging, struggling, and proclaiming. 

But once the questions are asked and answered, what then?  What’s the next hurdle, the next place I could make a contribution?  What is that next guiding light?

I’m not sure.  But I need to figure out how to write again.  I desperately need to connect with that vision. 

Because, if you think about it, good dreams are rarely silent.

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