The dog outside the window where I’m sitting is trembling in its skin. It knows how I’m feeling.
The music inside the cafe where I’m sitting is wheezing through the speakers. It knows how I’m feeling.
My pen, angled against the page where I’m sitting is not moving. It knows how I’m feeling.
The inspiration is there, dripping constantly like a leaking tap, but not much more is happening. The drip, drip, drips are build, build, building. Inside I feel water logged and burst worthy. Water balloon like. But the balloon of me is sealed tight. Knotted perfectly. Nothing, is escaping. Not a single one of those teeny drips.
An outpouring is inevitable. It’s just a matter of when; when those laborious waters will break so that I can birth the beast within – I say beast but I mean it in the most affectionate of ways.
Waters come forth. Surge. Creativity, I will you. Flow. Preferably now. If you have to, later.
I’m here. I’m waiting. Let’s go.