I was looking through some old documents on my computer today (December 2, 2014), and came across a little snippet I had written in 1998, when I was living in the Isle of Skye. I liked it, and thought I would try posting it here. I’m not sure about posting this sort of thing publicly, but maybe other people will like it, too. Here it is:
Skye, Sunday afternoon. I stare at the keyboard looking for inspiration, but all I see is:
Esc F1 F2 F3 F4 F5 F6 F7 F8 F9 F10 F11
Not that there aren’t a million unthought thoughts swirling around inside of me, and a million faceless faces which I sometimes see in the moment just before I sleep. And not that there aren’t a dozen mountain peaks just outside my window, and the constant changing sea and light, which fill me with longing and more unthought thoughts and the beginnings of many unfinished poems and pieces of writing.
There is music even in these musings, but not much sense or meaning. I feel empty, and I do not know if it is because I am really too full to say anything, or if I actually have nothing at all to say.
I know that I cannot write anything in this state, that nothing good, moving or true will come of it. But sometimes it helps to try. Sometimes the effort is part of the clearing out process, the underwater movement which eventually results in a great unsuspected creature arising from the deep.