a whisper to all the dear writers

I really do not have the strength of my confidence to back me as I say, “I am here.” Word-challenged and ego-empty, it is only a vague course in my heart that situates me here. My breath, gulped, explodes from me again. My fingers idle on the keyboard, and my eyes stare at them, and I do not see the words. Still, I nose along.

I have not dreamt of writing far into this night: the evening sun was good to watch, even as my powers for description began to decay; yet, pausing beneath its arc, its warmth is blistering my face still.

I am stopping again and listening to you wait for me to say more. I may run out from here: not from some burst of anxiety, but from a knowledge that “it” isn't here. I come back always; you needn't wait for me here.

You see this muse is not the mischievous elf it’s been accused of being. It does not hit you up for a dollar of perspiration like the street-alcoholic with his boozy words in your way. It does not hobo the steel highways hoping to find the last American savior, hoping to find that you still have the time. The muse is not dropping from the night’s lamp-post, as shadows from a dream, leaping onto your last and next step, lurking near your currents thoughts. The muse is not standing watching you disappear away. Instead, the muse is the furious fingers handling the pencil and splitting the seams of the long, long reams.

And on days like this, I am wondering if it had ever stopped. Or if I had.