Storm

I lay across my bed, feet dangling, cheek resting in my palm.

I gaze out the window to see trees swaying in the wind.

With pen in hand, I hope to write. I want to write. I need to write.

Why the hell can I no longer write?!

In this desperate moment, I put pen to paper.

I attempt to find any kind of inspiration.

Too many thoughts whirl through my head.

Where has my passion gone?

Life is meaningless without it.

The wind stills, the trees no longer sway.

I stare... I wait... for something... anything.

Just then a new breeze wafts through, bringing the trees back to life.

Is that what I'm waiting for? My 'breeze'?

It seems to me, I need a hurricane...

a true force of nature to break my creative paralysis.

Now that I think of it, it is the eye of the storm in which I am stuck.

It is where I reside as things spin chaotically around me.

The eye is peaceful but also lonely and without passion.

I must battle though the destructive forces to find myself again.