My fingers are on the keyboard. The desk lamp to my right throws a soft, yellow glow. My fingers move and the shadows dance across the letters. Dimly lit, my alcove shelters me, insulates me. It’s my second entry today – I feel like writing.
Paul refers to his blog as a way to rediscover the “joys of creativity and artistic expression”. I understand that. But I don’t know why I write. What started off as a daily list of events has developed over time into something less definable. Strange trajectory for a work in progress.
[Rob knocks on my door]
“Oh I don’t think so” [I’m paraphrasing here]
17mins, 49 seconds later I’ve completely lost my train of thought, the writing mood’s ruined and I think Rob is prescient.
I don’t rate my work anywhere close to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, but I can keenly identify with his frustration towards the “person on business from Porlock,” (real or imagined) whose ill-timed arrival prevented the completion of his most famous work.