Messied Palate

What does it mean when you have nothing to write? What does it say about your creativity, your critical insight? Have you embraced the utter dullness that persists? Seemingly pressing in on all sides, squeezing it insists that you give in to banality and embrace the lacking reality. The reality that has sapped your energy and thieved the ability to pen wondrous writings, stolen the craft of creation leaving behind a messied palate of lackadaisical imitation. The wheels are rusty and won’t respond to grease, sluggishly turning eventually they cease. Wallow in stagnation and forget the meaning of inspiration. Some memory deep down continues to yearn for the sparking freshness, the creative burn, but the desirous fire has seemingly expired. Trite flooding has melted the wires, and now you just sit tight twiddling away, hemming and hawing, with nothing to write.