echoes

as dawn grew into early morning, i woke. i had been wrenched from my fountain only a few hours earlier and i was eager to return, if only to complete the half-finished thoughts that had been left drifting between the spaces in my mind and reality.

but as i sat to work the simple magic i have been fortunate enough to wield, i found that the plentiful notions that had spilled from me just six hours before had somehow run dry. i tried with all my might but for all my effort, the only results were flat, lacking in life. in the coming hours, they became more shapely, but while they were pleasing they still fell short of the glory of my work from the previous night.

so to see that my sister, a magnificent writer in most all regards, had created the most extrodinary poetry in a seemingly effortless manner, was difficult to handle. however i failed to prevent myself from envying her the ease of the creation of something so spectacular. and somehow that which my sister and so many others--friends and strangers alike-- seem to intuitively grasp will always be just beyond my reaching fingers.

and perhaps it is this jealousy that sets the tone of my writing, that taints it. and this tenor is what is off-putting; the morning glory in my fields of prose.
but even so, i write, in the hope that somehow, someday, i'll reach that peak of magnificence and perhaps make some sort of mark in the world