The slight pocket of unplanned time; it appears on your horizon like a beacon, offering refuge from reality and the promise of Creativity, so you long for it and craft a schedule within the tiny room.
But the day appears with ominous clouds in your gut, and you pace the floor in a voiceless vacuum. Drape a long overcoat over your nonexistent dressing and descend the stairs but the dog is cold and tugs backward before you even round the block. He coughs in the dry heat. You choke on your own ambition. Terrified of opening doors because of what may lay behind them.
I wrote an old friend today, my shivering fingers reaching out to California sunshine because what fresh air runs along that Western Coast and the people impossibly beautiful. Her reply was prompt, comforting like sunshine and I smiled in my solitary filth.
Hours wasted are never that,
she wrote, we throw the term "wasted" over our process like throwing everything
into the closet so that we clean up for "guests".
The masterpiece is there, it just needs a place at the table and a warm
bath.
The evening was still numb, the screaming terror still raging in my gut, but a slight, soft wind blew across my brow and at least I could breathe again.
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