A Peculiarly Familiar Absence Of Flow
It’s often the way.
Your mind is full of things, of ideas and thoughts and lines of interesting overheard conversations, all rolling around up there, moving and bumping, creating little sparks of creativity and all kinds of interesting stuff. So you pick up your pen, or find your keyboard, and settle down, ready to work.
And you wait.
Because, and here is the thing, when you want the words and feelings to flow, from your head through your fingers and into reality, well, that’s exactly when everything just decides to stop. Inspiration hides and ideas lay down, exhausted, unable to turn themselves into anything of value or interest.
And this state, this peculiarly familiar absence of flow, has been my world now for a while. The ideas will return, I know they will, and of course, it’s clear that one persons flow is another’s nonsensical ramblings. But call it what you will, the words will reappear and, with luck and a level of gritty persistence, will once again provide a backing track to views of ordinary and everyday beauty.
Although this is far from ordinary or everyday.
