I Cannot Write

A poem-ish type thing of sorts

Photo of woman in glasses by Maren - license purchased by the author

I cannot write.

I’ve cast my net into the waters and come away with briny beads clinging to knotted ropes like morning dew on a spider web.

I have everything to say and nothing to say. I’m beating a conundrum without a rhythm. My words are spilled marbles on a hardwood floor.

I suppose I’ll have to find contentment in other pursuits.

I could go on an adventure.

Maybe I’ll pick some wildflowers in the backyard or explore derelict houses that stare at me with hollow eyes. I could relax, kick back, and read a book in a golden cloak of sunshine.

I could make a friend.

I could gossip over a fence of burning ears and wagging tongues. I could weave phone coils in my fingers, an opera of gasps and giggles and — “Bless their heart!”

I could have dessert.

Maybe I’ll bake a pie for a neighbor or eat pie with my sister. In all culinary pursuits, pie is absolute.

I could take a nap.

I could do nothing — nothing at all. Revel in stillness like a Valium-laced sloth in a warm vat of molasses — moving only to breathe or stretch or eat.

Whatever else I do or say today, one thing is certain.

I cannot write.