Sinead O'Connor's song "Nothing compares to you" kept playing in my mind as I struggle to pin my turbulent thoughts down into one coherent paragraph. It's been days/weeks/hours since my last pen-down. Obviously the song has nothing to do with me having mental-block, just only the seven hours and fifteen days which are relevant to this word diarrhea that is being regurgitated.
I have to admit, I lost my mojo. I wish I could be as Austin Powers did, find his mojo again. I lost that need to vomit out my thoughts on paper, I lost that love of immortalizing the world on celluloid or in this day and age, into hard-drives. I am completely and utterly dry. My inspiration is drier than the Sahara. I have fallen and slipped into the gorges of viral infected creative death. My rosy hue glasses are broken, replaced by grey, cracked ones...I have lost my passion, my only thread to existence hangs on a thread, hooked-on securely by mini giant size Ozzie kept alive by love and a four-legged fuzz ball.
My wings are clipped and I wish to fly again. The chain is getting shorter and the iron ball heavier.
On another note, I wish to wish my dear friends all the love in the world. Be kind, love, despite popular beliefs are getting harder to find. Love each other as if tomorrow is the last day on earth.
Maya Angelou said - If we lose love and self respect for each other, this is how we finally die.
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