Day 8

In need of prompt. 
Overstuffed, I sit on the couch, slowly letting the adrenaline drain from my body from the long, desperate day of toil. The potatoes have been cooked, the bills nearly paid. I place the headphones into my tired ears, only to take them out. Check on the kids. Pay the mortgage. Hear what is being said. This is the time I should be creating my novels, should be telling a story that would make an old man weep and a young girl sing with joy, but the distractions are not preventing the creation of beauty. It is within me where the blockage lies, from my soul, which does not possess any beauty in this moment. 
The lyrics scream into my ears, and suddenly, is that something? Is there an idea for me to pen, something original to develop? No, it is an old idea, an old song, one already sung by bards, and by teenagers who do not know a note from a tone. 
There are many things in my mind, but none of them are words. The words are what I desperately need, the words drive me from one moment to the next, a dying man across a barren desert in search of the words. 
My head aches.
There are many things in my mind. Will the weekend be long or short? How did I ever survive without rest, in the days I was young, quick and full of promise? I am not without promise now, but I feel the quickness has left my limbs, like a battery slowly drains throughout the long day. I become more quickly charged these days, sometimes quick to anger, but more often everything simply seems clearer. It is true what they say, then, that as the body slows, the mind does not necessarily. It is a paradox, but unimportant. I leave it on the glowing path I walk in my mind, lay it gently on the floor and move down the line. 
There are many things in my mind. The fear is there, but that lies closer to my chest, closer to the organ which, dare I think it, may stop at any time. Will it burst? Will it snap? I cannot not think about it, there must be some thought pouring into it or it will cease beating on its own. There are solutions to that particular problem, but they draw back to the quickness again, that quickness I desperately need these days. My anger flares, and I tell myself this too will change.
But then I feel the desire of ice cream, and that anger too lays upon the bright golden road of my thoughts. 
There are many things on my mind. Mostly, the thoughts bite, just like the pain in my head and back. It is easy for them to come and go, flitting in and out like canaries. Or are they robins or, oh what is that other bird. I feel angry when I force the words.
Sparrow.
There are many things on my mind. The many tasks on my to do list overshadow my joy of hearing each individual key click on my keyboard, but if there were ever a hypnosis strong enough to work on my mind, it is the typing of words steadily upon a keyboard. I wonder if Stephen King writes like this, fingers flying back and forth.
Probably. He probably knows all the words, sees them brightly in his mind, miles before he writes them. For me, it is as though accord connects to a dark room, from where the words fly willy-nilly, without rhyme, reason or rhythm. I can only see two steps in advance, so much in the moment does my tactical mind live; strategies are for action, for doing. In that, I can see leagues along. I can plan where to go, what to say, what moves to take, unless I am sitting still. 
They have probably invented a way to type while walking. But, there again, I lack the quickness.
There are many things on my mind tonight. As I look around my wonderful living room, surrounded by my wonderful family, a small part of me questions why they cannot come to the forefront and spill onto the page like oil onto the ground. Do I lack the required skill? The knowledge?
Am I bereft of story?
Am I just mediocre, just like Brian said then?
Quickly, for within my mind I have quickness now, I examine my life. 
I find no answers, negative or positive. The logic says the slight dehydration, the overwork, the toil of my body to provide for my family and to make my life better are what keeps the words from the page.
The heart says it is because I have yet to slay giants, to do something really extraordinary. 
The feet say it is because there is too much to say, too much I have already done, what needs more to be said?