Old and set in my ways, I am able to stop recording my thoughts with pen and paper. My thought process can’t function to rely on a keyboard.
A page a day keeps writer’s block away.
A reflection of the sun hides behind the rooftops of my gated community. Although the stars exist somewhere in space, they cannot be seen from the busy street shedding artificial light, spanning until it reaches Galveston’s edge and plummets into the sea.
I guess I can’t expect to write anything exceptional when it’s been so long since I’ve displayed any talent.
Searching for my poet’s eye, I find my groove in the wake of sleep. Treaded land takes form again and draws me in as it always did. Dry air settles into my skin, and I realize then, how much I love humidity and coastal rains. Life was mine, and so it still is, but I am much less idealistic than I was when I first came.
Tomorrow after all, whether we win or whether we fall, it’s just another tomorrow after all.
I have matured, yes matured, since I last felt the warming hand of inspiration. A cloudy distraction of over-analyzed thoughts and hasty interpretations is producing long-term effects on my psyche. What am I doing? Stuck here in south Houston with no chance of escape, dreading the outcome of my finished degree, I think I am finally ready to take my dream seriously.