When Muses Cry, the Words Dry Up

I should be sleeping. That's one of the status messages I'm prone to use on my gmail. But it's often applicable to my life. Sleep is a luxury sometimes. So much to do, so much to see. Why spend a third of your life with your eyes closed when you can get by on a fourth? Or less.

Caffeine helps. So does working out. Working out—I'm gonna be tired in the morning when I'm supposed to be doing cardio and working my core. Then again, maybe the sleep is something I should take advantage of. Though it would mean skipping out on the workout... but really... not the worst thing I've done this week.

Perchance to sleep... Perchance to dream... Perchance to mess with reality.

There's a melody in my head... can hear it fine. Quite clearly. And no, I'm not a cylon. I'm wearing headphones. The music is... sad, yet hopeful. Beautiful, yet... I don't know. It's from a Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode called "The Gift". A buddy of mine once told me it was sad music and I said in response that it was beautiful and evoked a level of love and sacrifice that most of us can only to hope to give. Or receive.

Am I being cryptic enough for you?

My apologies. I'm just not quite up to the task of putting my fullest thoughts into words. Well, not into print. Which is funny for a man who claims to be a writer. Who studied journalism. Who spent his night working late to do a write-up for a guest speaker at a company event which is completely stressing out his week.

But I can talk... though even then the words come out filtered, sputtering through my chapped lips like broken radio waves. The static flaring up, always at the worst possible time. Though some of you get clearer signals than others—I do try to make sure of that.

And now to sleep I go... my tired eyes weigh heavily under my overpriced lensewear. The music still plays softly... pulling memories to the surface that normally would make a man smile. But tonight...

The writer can't write. He will. He'll find a way. Always does. He'll seek for inspiration. Whether in the fresh morning dew. Or the purr of a kitten. Maybe in the stars that have always watched over him. He'll find inspiration again... where? I can't even begin to think about knowing how to answer that question. Just don't know. But I do know that for one night at least, this writer has lost it.