The World's a Stage.

I don’t know what is going on inside my head right now. I mean, usually I can see its workings, particularly where writing is concerned, like actors testing scripts and props upon a stage. Literally, people hanging about in Shakespearean, or scrubby-stylish thespian attire when the characters are not in costume (It’s a beautiful, mostly open-air stage, too. I wish that it tangible, so all could see). Do you think I jest?

And then, without warning, it all, even foundations of the stage, has gone, leaving a cold, empty cavity inside my skull. And suddenly, there’s nowhere, no one, to test my words and images, and I cannot write…

It’s strange then, that I think my characters are back, creeping out of hiding now that the monstrous stage-eraser has passed.

Without a stage, they cannot help me out so readily, but the child-like part of me which is in love with everything – every flower, every rain-cloud, and each emotion, however full of gloom – is back, and seeing the world as it should be seen once more. For that I’m happy. At least I can write in abstract, and I can play at moulding words, but what about my words, and my winding, tangling tales? When will they return?