Dance of Derision I rest my head on my arms, my eyes stare into a daydream, and I think. If the words would flow as easy as the coffee I have poured into my nervous system, I would be done. But they do no soft shoe, onto paper any faster with caffeine. Instead, I am anxious. I feel an idea just under the surface of my thoughts. It is so close, so tangible, so many millions of miles away. It is a feather brushed with a breeze to float on the rim of awareness. And as I reach for it a current of air from the movement of my eyes forces it further, further than the tendrils of consciousness can reach. And still, through gritted teeth, the idea lives to mock me with elusiveness. My frozen body, tilted, unmoving, is not a receptacle for the one thought which is now afloat on the edge of creative vision. If I confront the inspiration the motion will destroy the moment and the notion will quiver in the wave to tease me. Frustration is not a writer’s muse but, instead, the tide which carries the words further from my grasp. How is it I have come to know the voice of derision in the dance of an evasive inspiration? I am no longer creative. The juice which once flowed and cavorted along my fingertips to write magic has gone sour. It has won, this feather of thought. I am defeated, and feel my humanity once again. In my conquered soul remains the echo of an idea to skip furrows across my confidence in illegible words. I stand and turn from blank pages to leave them empty of immortality. Without warning the feather of a thought, which once danced away, is driven suddenly on the wind of awareness and crashes into my consciousness with a curse. The chair pushed aside, I lean over my page and set my fingers to fly into creation.