I don’t know what brings me back. It’s certainly too infrequent to be habit, so there must be some other reason. Inspiration does not just strike at regular intervals, handing out a monthly paycheck of creativity. Or if it does, I’ve got a pretty volatile wage. There are months when I truly think I’ve thought of something original—but then there are also months like this.

                Pay up, it’s time to collect.

I don’t derive any benefit from stringing words nonsensically. It doesn’t seem like anyone else does either. But maybe I believe that writing somehow helps my self-esteem, or raises my standing among others.

                Oh, he’s a poet. Not was—is. That makes him a better person.

Or perhaps this small spark, this pilot light (so to speak), links me—binds me—to the timeless procession of poets and bluffers, somehow coaxing and preserving the essence of humanity in fragments of phrases.


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