"you've never been to the moon/but don't you want to go?" -melissa etheridge

i lied.
i have been writing. i've just not been inundated with words... i've been writing, but i haven't had the burning, driving need to write. i think that's the difference, that's what seems so strange to me.

it's all cycles, it's all rhythm.
we wake and sleep, step and sing, even love in rhythms. there are days when i am constantly groping for something to write on, when every margin i can reach is filled with little scrawled phrases. words that hurl themselves against the smooth inside of my skull until i find some way to give them life. thusly made are the handful of stories which i begat but could not bring to bloom, which have a few lines, a few pages written quickly and perfectly and which have no ending. in the mires of my computer are files which consist of maybe six words, maybe a dozen, thrown onto the keyboard for fear of some violent reaction if left inside my mind for a moment more.

she clings to freedom like an angel to her wings
and she screams like a demon when she sings

and then there are days when no words come. when i feel abandoned and desolate and alone.
odd that such little things could have so much sway over my life, but it's a thing i've always known.

and there are those stretches of time when i write occasionally and quietly, neither burning nor broken.
i've always been so strange about moderation.