Originally posted on my old blog on May 29, 201
I have this blind spot…
I have this blind spot. It has to do with my writing. It seems I can help others with their writing more than I can help myself with mine. I see perfect images of my potential stories, yet when everything is written, there are gaps. The words are always on the periphery.
Never in focus.
Like a dream you remember having, but can’t remember anything else about.
This blind spot taunts me, reminds me of pieces unfinished, of worlds begging to be created yet left on an empty page with ink trapped in a pen. I struggle to see them. The problems, the images, not realized. I turn in circles making myself dizzy to see – to illuminate the ideas. Yet, the spot is adept at staying just over my left shoulder; always hidden. Perpetually out of sight.
I chase it down dark hallways and alleys trying to run through to see what is on the other side. I only find mist and regret.
The words don’t come.
The images stay dark.
And I stay blind.