Some days
I believe I can be as articulate as the greatest of ancient Greek orators.
Sitting, surrounded by youth.
Using extended metaphor to enlighten.
Persuasive and entertaining with my words. Arguing a point that possesses a foregone conclusion just to uproot it
and shake it free of narrow-mindedness. Then transplant it elsewhere.
Entertaining with anecdotes that seem outrageous yet familiar
to a captive audience.
Making others emotionally invest in the story being told.
Relating to the characters.
Relating to the storyteller.
Relating to me.
But then
there are those who don’t listen
unless
they, themselves, are the protagonist,
and it is their story being told.
Because everything that is not about them
bores them.
And they opt out that story even if it is not theirs
and could be woven into their existence and used for strength.
Other days
a big, thick, murky fog
clouds my brain,
and I’m distracted by trivialities or fatigue.
I try to cut through to get to the point that I know exists
just beyond the murkiness.
Immediate but unreachable.
Like the sun behind the clouds.
And I frustratingly flail about with my words.
“You know the thingy that what’s his face used for the whachmacallit? You know, the thingamabob?”
Plodding slowly towards a conclusion
that isn’t all that substantial
let alone scintillating.
And I wonder
how the day determines creativity.
What alignment of stars
or perfect thickness of the ozone layer
is needed for me to be bright and sharp
and compelling?
Or if the gods could merely flip a coin,
and decide,
“today’s the day”
to make a change.
Or
“today’s the day”
to take a nap.
At this moment,
I write.
But it’s a tough slog through the haziness
of a mind that doesn’t cooperate.
So what is there to do
but to write
about how difficult it is
to write today.
Ink And Spine 