Dried Up

Once I was a spring - words and art flowed forth from me. But now inspiration is an ooze - a slow and tortured trickle. No longer refreshing, cool water, but a sticky, sour sap. So the leaves and pages wither. Like an oil well drilled in shale so abundant at first - yet so quickly does it fade. But surely creativity is not limited - except by time. I must find my way back to the source. I need rescue from this nightmare - of being awake, yet unable to delight in life. Far more terrifying than boredom is interest without the will to pursue it. 13 June 2021