It’s been a long, dry season even though the rains have pounded upon the Earth and made it soft to the touch for the vegetation that drinks and flourishes.  But the words have not rained down on me, and I have been the one left thirsty, aching for some kind of inspiration.  All that’s left is emotion and this sensual connection to the world around me, feeling it…but no words…

It’s been a long time that I’ve been circling around inside my head, checking every corner for something, anything, to come alive.  But all I’ve seen is empty space, a wasteland.  Dry, desert space.  And tired eyes. 

I’m desperate for something that will speak to people beyond words.  Something that I can write down and post for everyone to see that will make them think and hopefully make them feel something too.  But I’ve got nothing.  Damnit, where’s the lasso to use upon my muse who’s been missing in action, so I can pull her back down to me so she can whisper once more into my ear?

I watch the footage of the whales trying to flee for their lives, the evident knowledge of danger in their swift motions to the surface, gasping for air as they race.  Then the harpoon strikes one and I see the impact and I can feel the animal’s shock, and I can imagine its companion’s cry, knowing that its beloved is on its way towards death.  I watch as it surfaces for air, choking, writhing, and then the string of bullets to take the light from its eyes and end its majestic existence for good before it is pulled upon the ship to be cut up, innards discarded into the sea for the gulls to feast upon.  The tears come down, that part of me dies along with the whale--that part that dies a little more each time I see these sorts of things--and the anger rises, telling myself to believe that it did not die in vain, that this will make a difference, that someday this torture will end.  But the words fall flat, if they come at all. 

And I wonder why I have not found an ounce of stimulation, not even a trickle.  How many times can you tell people that it does matter to love all creatures, not just the ones that walk upright?  How many different ways can you paint a world where aggression toward one another will subside if aggression toward other life ends?  How many words can be used to describe the same basic principle that far too many people will end up ignoring, and there will be no change anyhow?  Perhaps that whale has died in vain after all…

Too much time and too little words, too little productivity, and too little of what matters.  I am shackled unwillingly to a world of careers and salaries that purchase life.  And in the meantime I fight against the thought of these constraints dictating my ability to find fulfillment.  Shall I pine away my days hoping for some better opportunity, one that may never come?  Or live vicariously as I seem to have always done?  Or take a risk and risk drowning?  Or…I don’t even know anymore…  Too little words, too little inspiration.  It seems to have all gone dry.

The details aren’t always enough.  I can tell myself they are, but they’re not.  It’s been far too long since she left and the words have gone stale.  The colors I see and the sweet air I smell have found no home in my voice and so they remain in my mind. 

As time presses on and the night passes by, the anxiety wanes only because the exhaustion sets in.  Tomorrow will be filled with distractions and stressors, and they will run this river further dry.  And the hands will be useless in this desert mind.      

- Lisa Selvaggio