Sometimes

And if at times I glance up at the giants above and shake my head, dreaming of feeling the words come effortlessly, still I trudge, searching for satori. The words do not come easily; they do not come, then like the sudden darkening of the sky, they pour down indiscriminately, uneditable in their flow, constantly pouring and almost always into the sewer. They almost never come when I have pen to hand or keyboard to finger; they come with suddenness when I should be doing things which let me pay for life and trapped as if I was on the street with no umbrella, all I can do is keep pressing forward to my destination, letting the words soak through me, eventually to dry up.

I wish I could have shared this feeling with her, but the sight of her constricted me until that last day when I knew that I had no other choice but to burst into full persuasive flow and twist her denials around to acceptance. For that moment on that day, the words poured down through me, trying to soak a seed planted in the Sahara to germination. And failed.