I'm one pace behind the peace that we, as writers, need to complete our work.
I can almost taste the victory of a moment of silence.
Peace has outrun me far too many times to count. I crave the sensuality of serenity.
The only way to find that stillness is sedation, and under that influence, no work is born.
Agitation gnaws on every seemingly restful night.
I awaken from running nightmares, frightened of faceless creatures.
Again and again, one pace behind, I’m suffocated by feelings of inadequacy.
Salvador Dali must have known, for the melting clock is time slipping away.
Deafening noise surrounds me wherever I go.
Or is it the agitating clamor from within that keeps me one pace behind?