A fog rolls in masking my perception of reality. Sleep is a forgotten memory of cities in the clouds, of monsters, and of most excellent adventures. Real rest comes only to those who have earned it, and I surely have not earned my rest. My pen is unsteady and almost entirely dry.
Stories come easily but true inspiration is just outside my grasp. What awaits beyond the fog, beyond the veil? I so miss the adventures in my dreams, feeling weightless and being able to shift between realities was pure joy and scandalous ecstasy!
Now my pen lies still. Now I am too tired to write. Too tired to make the effort. How long has it been since I had a restful night’s sleep. It feels like eons. Time moves like molasses. Like a viscous sludge that will not allow me to move beyond the endless stream of days that all feel exactly the same as the one before.
As an excellent television show succinctly put it “taking steps is easy, standing still is hard.” I know now what I must do. I must charge forward with flames in my eyes and a volcano in my heart. Allow it to erupt and burn away the thick layers of lethargic malaise.
Melt the lead weights that hold me in place. Blaze a trail of fire as I power forward at full speed until I burn so brightly that even the gods new and old take notice. This is not the end. It is only the beginning of the end of a lazy writer, and his metamorphosis into something greater!
Image By: Jeanette Andromeda
The sands of time are fleeting. The twitters are tweeting. Tweet tweet mofo! @