This morning, as I sit before my computer, the images do not come. Words elude me. The creativity I had hoped would spur me to spill ideas and intriguing language through my fingers and onto the screen remains hidden under an impermeable blanket. Why am I unable to break the dull shackles this morning? Why are the words locked behind a wall with no apertures of entry? I am asking the wrong person, I’m afraid. I am asking myself, the same self who’s unable to light a creative spark this morning.
Perhaps my inventive thoughts are frozen; according to Weather Underground, it’s twenty-two degrees outside, cold enough to turn warm thoughts into frigid bricks. Maybe that’s it: I am the victim, this morning, of cryogenic creativity. When my creativity thaws, perhaps the screen will be awash in ingenuity.
But for now, I can only sit here, waiting for the sky to offer sufficient light for my walk. But is twenty-two degrees too cold for a walk? Someone I spoke to yesterday said I was crazy for walking in the cold; that may be true. Maybe I’ll wait until the temperature is a tad higher. Maybe not. Only time, and not much of it, will tell.