Once again I sat at my typewriter, although archaic in form it served me well for all I have written in the past, besides I find that computers lack the emotional punctuation desired.
It has been weeks since I have been able to draw any creativity from my mind and frustrations have overcome me many times, yet especially today.
I have tried everything imaginable to spark life to the damp log. Not the least of which was spending time with the authors that drew me into this passion that barely sustains my living, yet without which I would have no life. By reading the greats I was hoping to stroke my mind enough to cause a thought to climax an ejaculation of verbiage across the virgin parchment that teased and tormented my desire.
Alas nothing helped.
I drew myself up from where I sat, gazing upon the keys that longed for my touch, and slunk to the nearby window.
Rain…it has been nothing but for as long as I can recall…
Such grey surrounds me lately I have but vague recollections of colour and nothing more.
I retired then to my bed, resolved in the fact that perhaps the best of my future now lay behind me.
- by J.G. Smith (08/06/06)
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