I’m not sure what this week’s article was intended to be.
A smattering of purple prose,
A misguided philosophical diatribe,
Or the musings of a (temporarily) deluded mind.
When life tosses you a contemptuous curve ball, you either submit, or swing. And earlier this week, as I struggled to cope with the realization that the Sony PlayStation Network would be down –all Super Bowl weekend, I was hit with a one-two punch, caught completely off guard, by yet another shocking revelation.
ABBA announced a comeback tour.
It was all my mind could handle.
Which resulted in the last minute, down to the wire, nonsensical rambling, below.
When the Words Won’t Flow
As another blogging deadline approaches, I’ve yet to find a topic that intrigues me. Now, truth be told, ‘intrigue’ is a bit of a stretch, presently I’d settle for a topic that pacifies, one that trickles forth, a drop at a time, unencumbered, without the need for the right-click, copy, delete scenario. That’s been the process the entire week. Nothing noteworthy, nothing unique, just mundane, pedestrian fodder, worthy only of the recycle bin.
While I’m not exactly in unfamiliar territory, I find myself adrift in the withered waters of a dullard’s creative spectrum, struggling to reignite a meandering muse. And, as the week marches on, and a deadline looms, I remain lost, wandering aimlessly through the blank canvass of muted thought, mitigating impending failure on the desperation of a writer’s crutch.
The proverbial cerebral traffic jam.
Pausing to consider what errant thoughts, quandaries, perplexities, are responsible for thwarting my desire to pontificate, I ruminate. I question the very nature of existential thought. What random notions, superfluous factoids, ideological dilemmas, could be so problematic, so sinister, that my words do not flow?
I reassess, reexamine, and ponder the parallels.
And in doing so, the trickling tap of muted inspiration opens, albeit slightly. With the precision of an incision, I delve deeper, peeling back the layers, until eventually, the root cause of the absconding mind is revealed.
Internal conflict, turmoil.
Is this merely inconsequential, irrelevant tripe?
Or a sustained subconscious construct, an inherent disconnect, one that stifles productivity, diminishes effort, and prevents the writer from writing.
Not writer’s block, nor writer’s remorse.
Rather a mind’s preoccupation with the inconsequential.
An overabundance of conflicting thought.
An expired muse.
That awaits regeneration.
Through a Call of Duty,
Where the Winner Takes it All.
Until next time,