The silence of a Saturday night shuts out the distractions and sharpens the hearing. There are ideas splashing under the surface...the flickers of a story waiting to come to light...the breathing of the words hiding behind the doors. Yet there they remain. And languish.
Like they have been doing for so long. For a decade, in fact. I cannot even pretend that they escape my grasp. For I don't seem to even make an effort at grasping them. Why I don't, I am not sure. Maybe it's difficult to sense their presence amongst all the noise that surrounds my life. Or maybe the flow got diverted when relationships took centrestage. Or maybe the comfortable tools got rusty and changed beyond recognition thanks to the conveniences of microsoft.
So what do I need to do? Find spaces of silence? Or retreat from the involvements? Or simply buy a nice diary and pen?
I doubt if the answer's coming soon or so easily. But I hope it does.
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