I am finding it hard to focus creatively, weighed down by a cowardly feeling always lurking in the shadows beyond the reach of my understanding. Trading in the suffocating tranquility of upstate New York for the chaos of the concrete jungle and its ever-present noise has not been as beneficial as I first imagined. Day in and day out, I stare at my pens collecting dust and wonder what, if anything, I'm missing out from the world of the muses. I have stopped trying to find reason in my exclusion from their visits, though I find myself looking back at the days and nights they came to me in droves, each carrying a vision as unique as the tales they inspired.
Maybe one day they will return or, maybe, they have found another door whose hinges exhibit not the slightest spot of rust and whose hinges glide without complaint. I work hard at preventing myself from anger and frustration...from throwing in the towel and heading back East. I've bared my pride for picking, and my skin hangs on my bones like a dejected soul.
Soon - I hope sooner- they will come back with tales from lands further away. They shall tell of new faces, new heavens, and new hopes. They shall have new expectations, too, so I have to get better at transcribing what their eyes had beheld. Then, and only then...
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Maybe we should start without them, Eddie, and hope that they are so excited to hear our internal gears grinding against the rust that they come flocking back, armed with a can of WD40!
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