005.5 ninety five to go

I miss writing, today. It has been gone for quite a while... There are no characters in my head clamouring for attention, no stories to be told, no quickness/neatness of phrase dying to get out of that holding cell.

I am - searching for an alternative, less clichéd phrase than - rusty. Like an unpractised swimmer, I know the water is for slicing through, but I swallow a mouthful of chlorine and it goes up my nose when I reach an arm forward, and the effortless elegance of line, movement escapes me, and I have to reach a foot down to feel the sleek tiles under my luminously glowing foot.

I am creating once more, throwing pictures in the air, and snip snip snip, scissor blades flashing, a new shape appears. Words sneak into the images, through the snowflake holes, but as yet, they make no sense. Almost, I feel energetic enough to go back to the beginning of the project and sprinkle magic almost sense words together - sense-tences? But the fear of precedents stops me, fearful that once let loose, the few remaining words I have will scatter under the gaze of a kittihawk; I will be left as a pigeon, fat and cooing, perfectly congenial but with nothing to say. Or is that not better than having words like fleas under your feathers?