A Writer’s Lament
There are stories untold of the places I have been to which I cannot seem to tell. Why? You might ask. What is so special about those places? Or perhaps there is nothing special at all. Maybe that is why you keep them hidden, like a secret. A skeleton in your backpack. Oh nothing of that sort I retort. I have just lost my ability to tell you stories. Stories that sparked joy and mystique, perhaps even intrigue. Why? You might ask. Have you lost the storytelling ability to the temptations of the predictable routine? Maybe you have just grown old and your memory is not keeping up. Like a forgotten old legend. Lore of the past lost to the annals of unrecorded history. Oh nothing of that sort I retort. I have just lost all my listeners. They have flown away and are not fond of my stories anymore. Why? You might ask. Are they not fond of stories or your stories drove them away? Like a broken record which keeps playing the same songs. A redundant showpiece. Oh nothing of that sort I re