A bunch of nothing

I sat down at the computer tonight, and tried to write. An hour or two later, I’ve got nothing to show for it.

This whole time, I’ve been asking myself – what happened to me? I used to write all the time. I’m wondering what happened to my brain. I used to be able to look at the world, and see nothing but ideas. And now for the life of me, I can’t string a line of words together that are worth a damn.

I’ve been flipping through poetry books, reading poems. Mostly, I’ve been going through the Poulin Anthology, hitting random pages and reading. I keep looking for some splinter, some spark to set me off… but nothing happens.

I know this is a ridiculous notion, but a small part of me thinks that… if I started smoking again, I’d start writing again. It’s a palpable thing, and something I considered with more seriousness maybe three or four weeks ago. Right now, it’s less an actual option and more of a daydream. But I do wonder about it.

It’s been about three and a half years since I quit smoking. And yet, if I knew with certainty that I’d start writing again… I’d start up smoking in a heartbeat.