I Have Nothing to Write About

I have nothing to write about, i feel wedged between two hollow walls, both lacking inspiration and direction. But i am a writer. It’s entrapment being such a thing and having nothing to say. I feel trapped by so much, mostly the intricacies of life and how once unbreakable binds can be untethered with the greatest of ease. Nothing is certain and everything can be flipped on it’s head to reveal the truth whether you want to hear it or not. That’s some shit. 

I visited an artist friend’s studio recently, out in the desolate jungle of North Trinidad. We followed long, winding roads leading to a glimpse of an untouched past. His studio is in one of the old houses built as residences for the yankee soldiers during the “american invasion” of the forties. It’s a real snapshot and smelled like my childhood. He’s brilliant and has paintings hanging up everywhere, some finished, some works in progress. A mutual buddy and i sat on an old mattress and reveled in our own personal exhibition of his works past and present. What struck me was how he would flip his pantings to reveal what he wanted from it, how perspective yields the truth, and something must be flipped from top to tail until it settles on it’s purpose. The whole process had such a crazy parallel to what was happening in my life and i was truly inspired but reminded of my backlog of sticky situations. I picked up a Dylan Thomas collection while there, it was tucked amongst a scattering of books and i opened it to the villanelle; “Don’t go gently into that good night,” seriously?  It couldn’t be something more hopeful? It’s like i’m afflicted with a scarlet letter of pessimism, there is a giant, sad monkey on my back, tail around my neck just hanging there, pissing me off. 

 But in the same breath, when one feels outdone and capsized by the bullshit life can produce it’s important to retaliate and flip it on it’s ass every which way till you squeeze your truth out wailing for mercy. Other times it’s done for you, and those times suck. That’s the hovel i’m in, so i can’t write. I’m too busy wriggling right side up. 

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