I'm trying to loosen up my synapses to pour out some fresh prose, but something seems to interrupt this process. What am I talking about, you ask? As Wendy would tease me, I could expound on what I mean in miles and miles of analytical prose to give you my life's history, background, and contextual understanding of the situation, but suffice to say: I am running low on ideas to write about.
Don't get me wrong - my imagination is still thriving. I can dream in brilliant colors (although Wendy takes the cake for quantity and vivid quality of dreams - it seems like one a night!), but I cannot seem to capture the essence of these sogni in a solitary moment. Perhaps the moments scream by, and my moments of solitary plentitude leave nothing but quiet reflection for the writing process. Perhaps these thoughts are only as good as the moment in which they arrive, to be lost forever as the Xanadu of my Samuel Taylor Coleridge existence. Perhaps it is my lack of focus and concentration on the task at hand which causes these dreams to vanish in the smoky confines of whatever chosen room. Whatever the reason, I seem stuck.
Never mind - this is an attempt to recover my imagination for purposes of fiction. Give it a shot, you know, because before I know it, the year will be over with nary a poem or short story to show for it. A bit of an effort writing, 'tis true, to get a bit of a writing effort.