I feel like there is nothing going on in my had. I look internally and find a blank wall. So I will write about this mysterious wall.. Vague snippets of memories come at my bidding but their substance is lost. I am not having a day of sharp recollections..
I have no clarity, yet I have no confusion. I am a bucket waiting to be filled whether with slops or with caviar the world has not seen fit to show me. Sometimes random, or freestyle writing is enough to kickstart the creative process, The formulation of my thoughts onto the page seem to form channels that other thoughts can roll down, hopefully to become more tangible and sensible by the time they reach my fingers. Today I used the word specious in a poem, something I have never done.