Moments exist when concentration evaporates quickly, ideas dry up —fade. Tonight for instance. The blank page demands to be filled, an because an expectation lies in hand, words stall. Vocabulary stumbles on the tip of my tongue.
Something tells me I used that I used that analogy in the past.
But it does serve a strong purpose, motivating the text forward in a sense, positioning the letters down slowly, preparing them for a metaphor, something slightly sophomoric, perhaps, a steam engine, gathering itself together, coiled pressure tightening within, waiting— however. The pen pauses. Stumbles. Mind searching for anything to relate, other than this foggy landscape. Dense. Thick. Blank.
The page is still blank. The theme of meandering is meandering. Without purpose. Without a safety net to catch us in the end. Just the falling body. Icarus failing into the form of a comet. Shifting from a personal tragedy, a possessive melodrama—night deepens outside.