seymoure

Sleep.

I’ve heard it’s a great thing.

But, when you’re waiting for an idea, it is not a frequent flyer in my world.

The worst of tyrants is the empty white page.

It taunts me, jeers at me. That page is my enemy, it will never be my chum.

When the words start to fill with ideas then it is a basket of grace. Those ideas sing to us. They make the world a heavenly choir.

The damnable thing is that those great ideas and things cannot exist until they are clothed in the great empty white page.

Until there is something there, there is nothing worse than that hollow space.

A filled page is hope. I hope it is as good as I thought. I hope people will understand and appreciate what it’s trying to say.

Blank space is hopelessness. It is a former lover who now hates me. Any promise she has comes with bad attitude.

So here, in the middle of the night, is my beaconing mistress. Naked and vivacious, saying she will give me anything I want.

Except an idea.

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