I have not put the first significant word on paper or web page since the last update to this journal. The Muse, once so flirtatious and attentive, has moved on to another, and I am left here to wonder just what is wrong with me.

I thought it might be my environment, which temporarily changed from one of tranquility to one which was loud, squalid and dangerous. So I waited, patiently, until the storm had passed, and all was once again serene. But when I returned, I found I still could not write.

I thought it might be fatigue, because I had become so busy with celebrations, and mournings, and transitions, and labours. So I waited, patiently, until I regained strength and had a clear mind, unclouded by physical and mental exhaustion. But when I rested, I found I still could not write.

I thought it was a passing fancy, like the taste for raspberry sherbet, or the music of the theremin, or many thousand such fancies that grip the heart and mind with passion and then fade away, having left little impression on one's life. So I waited, patiently, for the desire to link words into sentences into paragraphs, and lines into couplets into verse, to fade and be replaced by some other temporary desire. But when I waited, I found I still could not write.

Like the taste for cool, clear water, or the music of the wind through the trees, or the fancy I have taken to inhaling on a regular basis, it has not faded with time. The longing has, in fact, grown, so that it is no longer a distraction, but an ache, a hunger, like a lust in my body.

And so, in desparation, and with nothing to say, I have turned again to the journal, throwing myself at it desparately, like a drowning man, only to discover that I have, in fact, actually written. Admittedly, I have not written well. If my name were posted here, I would never let this be posted. The cliches have flowed like Thunderbird; cheap, nasty, distateful, but easily accessed. It has been almost narcissistic. I almost feel cheap.

But at least I wrote something.