Sometimes I want to write but my muse isn’t there.
Sometimes I have seven textedit windows open at the same time,
all with partially written stories or ideas that never get flushed out.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of pursuing and completing a project.
I know that I am.
So I write this.
I want to write.
I want to tell stories.
I have stories to tell.
I can write.
Why can’t I write?
I’m like autofocus in a moving frame.
So I write this.
I should go to bed.
The nights are too quick.
I’m rocked by ideas that won’t fit through the funnel of my pen.
So I write this.
I want to go out shooting, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid but with cameras instead of guns. A battle of lenses and lights. I want to make a Lawrence of Arabia. I want to make an I Vitelloni. They don’t fit together very well, but hey.
So I write this.
I want to write an “On the Road”. I want to write a “Dune”. They don’t fit together very well either. So I write this.
I have a conscious insomnia. Are they goals or are they ghosts? Is this a poem or is it prose? I should be in bed. So I write this.
