The muses have gone on vacation and I’m sitting here trying to write something good, but I can’t. That spark, that ignition that burst of genius, or even that small flicker of okay just isn’t coming. I’m beginning to form the hypothesis that maybe today is not a good day for writing. I have been sitting at my computer, staring at the blank screen for roughly an hour now, and if I correctly judge the laws of physics, it’s going to stay blank until I come up with something to write. It’s ironic that the more freedom you have to write whatever you want the less able you are to write. Give me some lines, or box, or even a three dimensional octagon and I’ll do just fine. But set me free to explore the inner depths of my writing soul, and I suddenly go all stupid. I suppose, its like trying to ask someone to push the envelope, before the mail has even come. Maybe it’s just to early in the morning, for writing. My brain is feeling a little fuzzy, and I do have some sleep in my eyes. I think I will go out and stand in the sun for a while, letting the outstretched rays of warmth envelope me. Perhaps I will listen to the birds, singing, or the wind whistling, or the children laughing, letting loose babbling rivers of mirth. And even if I can’t find the words to write a poem, this morning, it wont particularly matter because at that particular moment I think perhaps, that the world will become a poem. and I will be stuck in the middle.