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.