when we were artists.

remember when we were unhappy and able to create to make and produce without stopping and wondering where was the source of our outpouring?
no, I don't have any more ideas, no more thoughts run through my arms and fall like raindrops on the keyboard keys.
but didn't you just this morning see a flock of white birds circling like tornados and think to your self 'white flashing bellies in the morning sun'?
yes, but I also saw black birds that didn't stop, that flew in a straight line behind the horizon line trees.
and that was it?
yes, that was it and I went to work with a desire but without the means.
you sound like you're waiting.
yes.
for what, for what do you think will make you go, make you run afoul of language and want to jump at the mountain of being misunderstood or not understood at all?
I don't know, but I do know that it will never come, there will never be a push-from-outside, a contingent change of course, for how can a creator not be responsible for creation, how can I be the source of my creations if I do not choose to create? So why is it that I so frequently do-not, and instead not-think, not-do, wait-long?

both went their separate ways although it was hard to tell who had said the one thing and who had said the other for they were both wearing the same drab clothes fit for walking in the sort of absent minded weather both men were having. did one stop at a store on the way home to buy something to eat, for he now carried a small white bag while the other walked straight only stopping once to look out over the tall retaining walls in an attempt to view the sea through the hard fog? Once home did one have coffee while the other sat across the table staring dourly either at the other's face or the beaten wooden table top the only thing visible in the singular lighted basement room whose basement walls held in the chill and damp that they pushed the upper floors above?