Zero at the Bone

Hello.

There is a place from which no inspiration springs. Where dwelling in the mind is no different than running your hand through the dusty air of an empty chest you forgot you had. Ever hear of those springs of ground water that simply bubble from beneath the ground, producing a tributary stream that usually flows downhill to a major stream? They come from what are called aquifers (Latin for water-bearing) which are underground chambers of water. Mine is dry. And no matter how far I stick my arms into the earth of me, not even the dirt or stones are wet. Dry as sun-bleached bone. Emily Dickinson called this place of fleeting inspiration "zero at the bone". One thinks of marrow, calcium, muscle, but nothing is there but the bone.

In other words, I'm uncreative.

I'm definitely inspired but it doesn't translate into anything. But then another part of me doesn't care about that tangibility. I sit back with my lists of shoulds and whys. And I want to tear them apart. I know what I love. I know what I am and what I am not. I know I am and I know I am not.

It's the being okay with it that is new.