I've been preoccupied with moaning about how Inspiration has deserted me. I'm left searching for my Muse; calling out to her in the emptiness of my mind. All I heard, though, were echoes of my own voice and I continued to believe that my Muse had relinquished her duties; departed for warmer climes. I looked around for the 'creative spark'. I saw glimmers of hope in the wind and the rain, the sky and the clouds and the endless colors of Spring. Each blooming petal was a reason and a tool for my mind. In every drop of Heaven I hunted for that reclusive sign of genius whose existence had been promised me. And yet, I failed to be able to pour out the words inside me and stir up legible phrases from them. I could not manage to express that which had been inside me and, hence, I thought it lost--forever.

I just re-read the crap above. I now need to be repeatedly told that as a writer I am severely deficient in that which makes an author brilliant; in my case, even good would be an achievement. It is possible that once that fact is reinforced often enough, I will come to accept it as reality. So all of you who care an ounce about me, get started on the convincing process.

Let the discouragement begin!