Rusty

I stumble clunky through avenues of phrase. It’s been ages since I’ve tried to fit them together in a pleasing way. “How hard can it be?” I ask myself as I test the sound of adjectives against nouns. “I used to do this all the time.” And it is true, but it used to come easier. Even years later I discover that my old sentences don’t displease me. Somehow I found a way with metaphor, could balance consonants and alliteration into satisfying forms. Little vignettes they may have been, not much, but charming nonetheless. While now every syllable is a struggle, sentences blundering against conjunctions hard enough to leave contusions. Writing used to be a release of pressure, a value to help me breathe easier. Bedecking my thoughts with vowels and the perfect prepositions I gained a little perspective. Now I’m just muddling through, trying to recapture the magic that used to leak out of the blinking cursor.