Season of Intellectual Drought
These obscure whirlwinds come every season of intellectual drought.
I am a weakling of a dandelion and lack stamina to face these winds.
The wind snatches my seeds of thought and tosses them across the lawn, across the city, across the country,
planting them in cement.
They’re being blown to foreign cities and unfamiliar senses.
Parts of me travel to dump sites to be forever lost in the chaos of waste with no soil to call home.
This season of intellectual drought approaches me with confidence every nightfall and makes me hide behind my hands until slivers of light crawl between my fingertips,
illuminating my eyelids.
I want to run away to my safe haven and bring my thoughts with me.
But I have no time to prepare my mind and tell them to grab their war gear.
So they run around chaotically,
tripping over the idea that they might be put to the test tonight.
They might have to surrender to the Devil tonight.
I go to tuck them into bed but instead of singing them a melodious lullaby they hear the heavy footsteps of my demons marching down the hall,
startling them and depriving them off their rest.
They dream of being touched by the sun,
to make their way into the world and be cradled by the wind as it carries them to far off destinations where they’re far more suited than here.
They have so much potential, but no chance to make it out alive.
Seasons of intellectual drought come unexpectedly and more often than I'd like for them too. For me, intellectual drought is a dry place where nothing can revive you no matter how hard it tries. Sometimes it is as simple as writer's block other times a lot more complex and harsh.
