I have found myself recently gazing down into the stony depths of an endless abyss. A well echoing a deathly hollow noise when a pebble is knocked over the edge. The faint click clank as it bumps down the well, resounding off the interlocking cobblestone walls.
My proverbial well has run dry, but oddly enough I come across myself sitting here writing about this conundrum of sorts. I am preaching tales of my writers block, but by giving this sermon I have unblocked the passage of which through flows the literacy of my mind. Upon losing the source of inspiration for writing long ago, feelings of aggression, remorse and sorrow now distant and blurry, I have found a new spring of life for my pen. Or in this case, my keyboard. The sentiments which fueled my passion for composition have lost themselves in a vast archetypal sea. Nibbled away by vibrant, swarming impressionistic fish, or else chomped upon by that damn conceptual shark.
So maybe this well that I have spent hours peering down into, attempting to see the end, is not as empty as I thought. Perhaps there is a murky depth which is too abysmal for me to see. Perchance one day I will hear a soft plunk as my fishing lure breaks the surface of the puddle awaiting me at the bottom. Is it a meager puddle, or a fathomless lake filled to the brim with proverbial creatures in the shroud of mystery which lays at the depths of my well? Unseen and unknown, awaiting my catch and release unto the world.
Gone Fishing,
~Chiko.
