Is it just this morning I’ll feel so sad?
That would be tolerable, bearable, not so bad.
Please, oh please, let it be.
Or is the increasing onslaught of conflict pain and loss, finally, yes finally catching up with me.
Is it just this morning the summer garden will seem so grey?
Old father time dragging his heels, feeling tired and faded, stretching out the day.
Myriad verdent greens of trees, rich pink of flower, full blooded red of fallen leaves.
They seem all the same, far away and distant, fused together in a disorientating haze, in my fixed, impersonal, expressionless gaze.
Is this the start of another depressive stage?
The ideas, the energy, the inspiration like water of gushing refreshing rain have been teaming; but this morning painful jerking sobbing there’s been; the tears of grief have been streaming.
I feel cut off, engulfed, out of touch, from the world around me, and my art that I love with a passion, that I love so much.
Can’t see or feel my creation, can’t get out paints or pick up my brush.
My work, it sits upon an easel, a little awkward as if anothers and not my own.
I colated, forlorn, a little lost and all alone.
I’m dazed, I cannot move.
I feel leaden, dark and brooding, as lifeless as cold grey stone.
But what is this prose if not creativity in a different form?
Will this creeping present darkness give birth to monster?
Will he stretch out endlessly the wings of time?
Can I work with him?
Let him form in me, through me, some art work of a different nature, a different rhythm, a different rhyme.