take up your bed and walk

 

I have waited so long for the perfect piece to come along. It irks me that it is still yet 'to arise'. Lately it seems to be further away than ever. In the cold daybreak light, it is blatantly obvious that if I don't write, then no great piece of writing will appear, but as obvious as it is, it is the last thing to occur to me.

So, obviously, I don't write. I find it more instructive to berate myself for not doing so. When I do write I turn out crap like this. I read it, criticise it, deconstruct it, edit it. Then I delete it. I start posts, select stunning pictures to grace the crumbs of profundity, which I intend to scatter among my wisdom starved and utterly grateful followers.

I notice with dismay my conceit, my arrogance. Of course I dispatch myself with short shrift, with the utter contempt such pretensions warrant. It is the very least I can do, as an even minded and dispassionate observer, a lover of the written word (when correctly executed, you understand).

Enough about the incessant, inane, internal chatter, that mumbles behind my creative bent.

Does every piece of writing have to involve this torturous birth process, this forming and squeezing out of things that seem too large to come through? Do they have to pop out and look at you as if there was no effort on your part, as if to say... "look at me! aren't you overjoyed to see me, and wasn't that a breeze?"

And let's put to one side, for now, the relative ugliness or unworthiness of what eventually does emerge. If my children are thought to be less handsome, more stunted, misspelt, ill considered, uncouth, or more asinine, less sensible, or weirder than the children of others, are misconstrued, misunderstood, don't mix well with others, should I love them any less?

Probably. In all good conscience, not. If the truth be told, they too deserve to live.