Day Five Hundred and Eighty
Wednesday, 28 September 2011, 11.26pm
And yes, you have a sense of freedom lingering about you, one that you have longed for once, yet you don’t know what to do with it.
What one may perceive as music, another may critique as mere noise. What one thinks of as art, another may see no value in. What I may consider writing you may consider babble. It makes no difference what the work is. The creative process is still incomprehensible. You try to place pen to page and yet no ink comes from it. Claim it to be writers block, place blame on distractions, but in truth it is the simple loss of words.
Am I possibly the only one prepared to do more than drink and swear and party? Is it such an abnormality that I choose not to squander my already depleting resources in such things? Perhaps that is both the solution and problem.
