I think the edict goes something like ‘I write therefore I am’.

So, if that is our ‘code’, our universally given and accepted ‘credo’ as writers and tellers of tall tales, then ladies and gentlemen, against that measure, I am a fraud.

It has been weeks, far too many weeks since I last typed one word after another.

Confession is good for the soul, and as such I must also add that I haven’t read anything in such a long time either.

I have no technicality to wriggle on.

I haven’t been knee-deep in editing, or indeed any other associated creative musings.

I have been, and I remain, absent from that wonderful dream sea in which I so often bathed…

It’s not that I’m stuck in self destructive cycle, more a peculiar rut of self-denial.

Why?

I have no idea.

Other than teaching the world to sing, I’d like to see my scribbles read and hopefully enjoyed. 

I know, understand, and accept that the road to such a goal is long, steep, covered in potholes, and that it has a troll with a penchant for bludgeoning travellers under each and every bridge.

Yet, it is a journey that up until now I have voluntarily and joyfully taken.

I have…

But now I feel empty, almost as if I am laying cold and naked on the floor, a husk of what once was so driven and focused – so singular of purpose…

So, if psychobabble colonic irrigation can wash that image out of your mind, can something similar work for me?

Is this just a glorified self-indulgent manifestation of ‘imposter syndrome’?

Or, have I indeed travelled my journey, finished my quest, taken this as far as I can?

Do I now say those immortal words ‘so long and thanks for the fish’?

It’s been a wild crazy ride; maybe indeed we are at journeys end…