Some days I believe I can be as articulate as the greatest of ancient Greek orators. Sitting, surrounded by youth. Using extended metaphor to enlighten. Persuasive and entertaining with my words. Arguing a point that possess a foregone conclusion just to uproot it and shake it free of narrow-mindedness. Then transplant it elsewhere.
Entertaining with anecdotes that seem outrageous yet familiar to a captive audience.
Making others emotionally invest in the story being told.
Relating to the characters.
Relating to the storyteller.
Relating to me.
But then there are those who don’t listen unless they, themselves, are the protagonist. Unless it is their story that is being told. Because everything that is not about them
And they opt out of a story that, even if it is not theirs, could be woven into their existence and used for strength.
Other days a big, thick, mucky fog clouds my brain and I’m distracted by trivialities or fatigue. I try to cut through to get to the point that I know exists just beyond the murkiness. Immediate but unreachable. Like the sun behind the clouds. And I frustratingly flail about with my words.
“You know the thingy that what’s his face used for the whachmacallit?
You know, the thingamabob?”
Plodding slowly towards a conclusion that isn’t all that substantial let alone scintillating.
And I wonder how the day determines creativity. What alignment of stars or perfect thickness of the ozone layer is needed to be bright and sharp and compelling? Or maybe the gods merely flip a coin the decide, “today’s the day” to make change. Or “today’s the day” to take a nap.
At the moment I write. But it’s a tough slog through the haziness of a mind that doesn’t cooperate.
So what is there to do but to write about how difficult it is to write today. Then go and take a nap and wait for the fog to lift.