I don’t write the way I used to, and maybe that’s the problem. All these words have suddenly been flowing in my mind and they’re gone before I can even get them written down. It happens at the most mundane times, times when my hands are not ready- washing dishes, taking the dog for a walk, cleaning the house for the umpteenth time. It’s a spur, a twist of my mind, as if magic just occurred. It sickens me, if I’m being fairly honest. Most of the time I won’t even realize what I was thinking about until hours later. I wonder if the greats ever had this problem. If those poets, who I look up to, sat pondering on those words that were right there on the tip of their tongues but could never come out. What did they do to help themselves? Sometimes it feels as if I just do this to keep myself going.