I used to be filled with all manner of fanciful ideas. My ideas would flow down from my brain into my heart where a warm feeling would rise up to my eyes and make my face glow. Then the energy created by heat would transfer to my elbows where they would convert the ideas along my bones and tendons into a mechanical drumming of my fingertips upon lettered keys. Happily, I would sit while the sun set and the monitor would light my face as it alone brightened the dark room.
When the last click submitted my work and my head whirled out from the cloud of euphoria and fantasy, my body would creak and pain and remind me that I was tired.
But now I sit and hear a hum instead of ideas. I see a blinking cursor, a pen poised over a blank page, and I wait for the emotions to guide my words. My muse is gone. The dreams that visit me are disjointed and bleak. Unfinished stories do not speak to me of their endings.
Time watches the wasted breaths as I sit waiting, hope fading to longing. The monitor goes dark.