the sweetest tongue

Stream of Consciousness

Friday, March 30th, 2007 | journal

She’s going to eat you alive.

The thoughts that go through my head every day. I thought the above observing an awkward boy carrying a neuroscience textbook ordering coffee at Starbucks, his companion a confident, strong-featured woman of South Asian descent.

I’m tired.

The body feels limp and used from the day’s activities, and yet I feel like I can write. The need to write just take over sometimes. I could have gone home. Instead, I had dinner at Noodle on Peachtree, and I am now sitting next to the window at Starbucks, looking outside at people bundling up for the first time in a week as the weather cools with the end of March.

I’ve lost my inspiration.

I never really lost it. I merely forgot where it was, found it, and realized that I was no longer the same person it used to inspire. All of the old tools no longer work. Blank notebooks, blue skies, naked pictures of boys in slings, countless thoughtful cigarettes and bouts of rampant sexual adventure have ceased to spark in me the sense of creativity.Everyone says that it is only a drought, and that it will all come back.

No comments yet.

Leave a comment