The silence in my head speaks louder than the brain gremlins feeding on muse droppings and thought decay.
All those lovely ideas scribbled on Post-it-Notes and envelopes, screaming to be saved. They telepathically collect rejection slips, while waiting in the dark chamber of neglect in the lobby of paper limbo.
I’m still working out the details of the rescue with a team of Navy SEALS that moonlight weekends at the circus balancing ballpoint pens on their noses.
It doesn’t instill confidence. I know. But at least they’re making money, while waiting for my signal to board the bridge to nowhere that extends from the real world to the creative universe in my head.
It’s a busy place with monochrome ghosts and black holes sucking up the air. Where are the Immigration dudes when you need them? – On the beach of Cozumel sipping Mai Tais with secret service hookers and little green men.
Is there poetic justice? No. Writing just is a twist of fate.