SIR GUESTLING THORN

 Day 266

Todays word: CRAMBRAZZLED (19th century) Looking prematurely aged from excessive drinking!

I don’t just write this blog and those of you who have read it will know that occasionally I publish one of my short stories or poems. (There is one below today) Since the beginning of December my creative juices and imagination to write at all (apart from this blog) have dried up. I don’t feel inspired and no subject has sparked any desire to do so. If you are a creative person (and I believe in some way we all are?) you will, now and then, have periods where the creative feel is just not working! It’s not writers block, I am not staring at a page without being able to start (I wrote the poem yesterday). I guess it’s the current situation we all find ourselves in. 

I belong to a writers group and having emailed them it seems that they too are struggling. Honestly, I sit and struggle to start this page each morning. I find it therapeutic to write my thoughts and feelings down but recently not so much, for obvious reasons! As someone who is not afraid to show my feelings or emotions it is easy for me to be smug. There are many many who struggle to either express themselves or articulate thoughts and in this time of uncertainty and danger, it must be doubly hard. The human psyche is a strange beast of unpredictability and capriciousness, constantly leading us astray, whilst bringing us joy and grief in equal measure! The human condition. 

Oh and I don’t like the the cold and winter in general. Fine if you do but I definitely don’t!

Stay well

WE ARE WALKING IN THE AIR!

I poke my nose out the door

The world is still there

Blank and grey frozen

Knees creak as we perambulate 

Zig and zag smile and nod

Curtailed by weather and natures revenge

Fingers cold in furry suede

These streets still look the same

Christmas lights twinkle and shine

Comfortable but imprisoned

Freedom is a walk to nowhere

Chilled but not stirred

Nature impassive and still

Looks on as we pass

Squirrels scurry across the grass

Trees sentinel and bare 

Dogs run round without a care

Park is a refuge but ironically full

Ghosts of past days 

Haunt the present like glorious joy

This too will end

A memory of times gone by

All things must pass

As long as it’s socially distanced!