One day passes, and then another. It fades. It gets harder.
You pick up a pen, put it down.
The paper is blank, stays blank. Very blank.
At some point, you look for inspiration. You used to write, right?
You turn a few pages back. You stare your words.
Was that me? Really?
Hoping for inspiration, finding intimidation.
They were you, then.
Are they you now?
You look at them and they look at you, a flickering, vague sliver of mutual recognition.
Then the excuses come.
Too much work.
Friends coming over.
You know the excuses are a masquerade, blurring the fear.
A comfortable pillow smothering the harsh reality of laziness and indiscipline.
And then one day you pick up the pen and it comes.
Ink flows. Pages fill.
It comes. You don’t know why.
Bananas for breakfast?
A good night’s sleep?
Just enjoy it whilst it lasts.