It is in the wee hours of the morning, long before the sun rises to startle the new day with warmth. My bed is empty, the overhead lights are on, and I am frustrated by the intellectual and literal nausea I am feeling. Tired of the same dreams night after night, and the same restlessness when I look at my unfinished work…knowing there is something I cannot control that is literally sucking the life from my creative flow…
Within life, we transition from event to event, from one season to another, but it is when the transition does not make sense or is not complete that we cannot seem to make a written transition work…and ’tis true for me now. The sun may come up, the skies may turn that pastoral-pastel blue…but for me, I am stuck in a Pastornak poem where it is raining…and it rained the whole night long...everywhere it rained…like the snow that fell from world’s end to world’s end in “Winter Night.” And, yes, the candle still burns on the table…
It will take another to stop the rain from falling. Or, maybe even a word or phrase. In this gray night, with no moon and no stars, time does not speed onward, it creeps, crawls…softly forward. And I wait for another…who has not arrived.