Dry

[weakerthanwhat]

My veins are full of sawdust. My thoughts evaporate before my brain can catch them. I read other writers' blogs -- young writers, mind you, people my age, not already-established, publicly fawned-over writers -- and feel the pulse of their ideas, the crystalline precision of their language. I look at my work and I realize it's all gone, or perhaps never existed. I have no words in my life and no life in my words.

I can only hope that renewed inspiration lies somewhere beyond the long sigh of relief awaiting me at the conclusion of this application process.