alchemystic | Perhaps a hammer and chisel...

Words fail me. Again.

Words were once a friend to me. They came unbidden, in whole sentences, full of life and stark imagery fueled by imagination afire. They flowed freely through me and wrote themselves on the paper. They told of many things: of a living flame, of a man out of place, of a young boy traumatized by his mother's peers. They made worlds, created lives, destroyed whole existences with less than a thought. They were, through me, gods in themselves.

Now they dance just at the edge of my grasp, seemingly mocking my every attempt to capture them and assemble them into cohesive, relevant thoughts and ideas. When I become frustrated and try to force them into place, they retaliate by sounding trite and clichéd. When I give up and start to walk away, they feed me the tiniest sliver of an idea -- just barely enough to refuel my desire to write -- and then they again abandon me as I reset myself to the task.

I am betrayed by abstract concepts.