Blocked

I must apologise for the lack of postings just lately, but it appears my muse has up and left the building....seriously, I got nuthin'. Do you have days like that?

Of course I have been doing stuff, but my senses, for some reason, seem to have shut down to my experiences. I usually wallow in my interactions with people; allowing their energies to wash over me like a stream over river stones, and normally I also like to bask in the glory of the natural world that surrounds me; morphing into the landscape, drinking and soaking it all in, osmosis style, but over the past couple of weeks, it just seems that I have tuned out, and I am struggling to reclaim that same reflective mind space. I am not sure what it all means, really.

In an effort to gather inspiration, I went searching for writing prompts, online. If you ever find yourself in a similar predicament, I did find this site, but even having stumbled upon these numerous ideas, I still didn't feel the energy move me to scrawl feverishly inspired ramblings or recount fantastical musings from a former existence. HELP.

Over the past couple of weeks I did complete two numerology requests, and I rather fear that the numerology muse might just have given the creative writing muse the ole hip and shoulder and ousted her from these, the most humble of lodgings, they being my head space - obviously there ain't room enough for the two of them.

Anyway, with those tasks out of the way, I would rather like to welcome the writing muse back. Perhaps I could invite her over for cake and black tea served in my best china cups. She might divulge where she has been. She may have been on a trip somewhere, and will delight me with stories of far off lands, like Egypt and Peru or Siberia.

Perhaps she has been ill or had broken her leg, and spent the past couple of weeks feeling frustrated, unable to move, while stretched out on a soft bed strewn with plump, hand-sown cushions, a heavy, feather stuffed patchwork quilt spilling around her, while her plaster covered leg hung, hoisted in the air.....I must make some room for a wheelchair, should she be in such a state when she calls upon me again.... and some ramps, she might be trying to reach me now, as I type this out; that winding metaphorical staircase, I insisted upon during the construction of my humble abode, has proven time and time again, to be impractical and rather off-putting to some - darn it!

Or perhaps she has been taking care of another, and has spent these recent days sitting vigilant in a rocking chair beside a sun-lit picture window facing a tranquil garden. Her loved one resting fitfully in a bed nearby, moving in and out of fever inspired hallucinogenic sleep. She, blotting a hot, sweat beaded forehead with a cool damp cloth whenever the need arose and spooning thin soup into a weak, dry mouth . She could do nothing more, but daydream with a lavender crocheted rug hugging her knees as she rocked in her chair, and watched the birds play in the birdbath outside. She was dutiful in her care, but will tell me of her longing to return to her day job, as my muse... yeah right. Please come back, muse.