Inordinately occupied for the last week with vacation preparations and a last-minute effort to organize my literary work, I begrudgingly have not written for a few days—and it hurts.
Alas, the conscious effort to neglect my creative impulse in lieu of more rudimentary, yet necessitated tasks, is the melancholy means to achieving other things that I must do in order to get back to giving my all to my greatest passion, my raison d’être, that which unconditionally invigorates my soul.
But as downtrodden and depressed as I may melodramatically lament, I know I’ll survive this dry spell, this dreaded drought of words. Yes, the hunched pain of knotted shoulders I bear, as I tear through the long list of provincial things to do, will come to pass; and at last the heavy set eyes begging me to sleep and the pressing weight of the mental cement block I’ve poured in place of my brain will soon be lifted, and once again my tumultuous mind will storm and my incorrigible imagination will thrive unshackled by obligation.
Yes, all these unwieldy children of frustration shall be pacified sooner or later.
And ultimately, in the end, I shall rest peacefully in the pit of fate because I attempted to be a better person. if not, I’ll console myself by pretending that at least I became a better writer because of my sacrifices.
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l.m