Writers Block

I've been suffering from writers block lately. I cannot seem to so easily tempt the muses or converse with the metaphysical as is normally my vocation. Perhaps its is due to some physical change in the chemistry of my mind or, better yet, it is due to some mental change in the chemistry of my mind. That at once I find myself in a situation that is not normal for myself. Not that the situation is necessarily bad but that it has been an unvisited one for some time and so I do not quite know its poles as of yet(which I would normally impart to you).

I do not have writers block, for it does not exist. I am simply caught in a transitionary state from the life I used to live to the one that lay before me. I am changing. My tastes are not so different and neither are my portals of expression but indeed the general air that surrounds my being is of a different consistency than has been usual. It has been a dry air, a heavy one that, in its weight, allows only dynamic and swift motions of the body. It is this same air that forces so many of my peers to war with themselves and each other. This same air that turns blooming youths into mellow elders. This same air that takes peoples hearts and leaves them only with a picture of a heart; the passions removed.

Truly though, this air will not affect me with such tenacity for I know its ploy and I will not fall for its trickery. I am an opponent that it has never faced before because I do not fear it. And so, I will write for you again my dear moleskin.

The warmth of the hand drifting slowly across the skin.

The small candle spreading until it is a roaring fire.

Passion burning hot sitting within.

A drive that does not tire.

Let it out into the world and all will know their place.

Fear not the cold invading as it may.

For it fears passion's face.

unto the dieing day.