The minutes tick down tonight and still I haven't published. I did not procrastinate this morning and in the morning's work I thought I saw the seeds of a piece but when I returned to the writing I found nothing that wanted planting. For two weeks now I daily think I see the ideas clearly but when I try to write them into focus they disappear into shadow. And the minutes tick away and tick away.
I write to figure out what I am thinking and here I am writing and writing and through it all I have felt that I have actually known what I am thinking and yet the pieces do not come. And the minutes tick onward.
The minutes tick onward.
I am fighting with something and I can't seem to figure out what it is.
In my sleep the other night three demons revealed themselves. Perhaps this confusion, this struggle is their work.
I do not know if they were just arriving and saw fit to announce themselves, or if they have been here for years and I just saw them for the first time.
I have spoken to them to tell them that their time grows short. I have spoken to them already about power and about strength. Tonight I will speak to them about devotion.
Feed on my confusion, you hungry three. Or rather: try. You'll find it's a thin broth indeed. The minutes tick onward, true enough. Years have passed like that, a minute at a time, but even in the deepest despair I never gave up. Will I now?
(Not the creation I sought but the creation that came to me.)