Letter by AlButol Al Hargan

Posted on March 13, 2012 by

0


To writer’s block –

A year in literary repose was the last thing I expected when I opened my last journal. A plethora of humdrum thoughts and quasi-riveting dreams were the furthest things, right in the crevices of my mind, when I unwrapped the black cover from its clear plastic casing, a highly subjective, personally esoteric endeavor is not what spines are broken for. The welcoming scent of fresh pages asks for more than half-remembered dribbles for the illusion of creation. Don’t give me that “I will sing for you” nonsense. I don’t care if “the night is the perfect shade of dark blue” or if “ethereally alabaster” would be a great description to something in a story about someone who does something to break the spell and fix the world.

Give me rhythm.

I miss the tendonitis in my wrists, I miss the tremors sent up my arm in the drunken haze of words. My fingers have never been so still. Under your weight in my brain, reclining carelessly against my nerves, drinking the libations of my words – because let’s face it, that’s the only thing keeping you alive –, my gait is steady. Return to me the wobbliness, the blindness of stepping into new territory, the breathlessness of adventure. Lethologic drought, under the guise of stable, of steady, of sure, is far too redolent of the thirst I’ve been unable to quench in this literal desert.

Douse me in rain. Give me petrichor.

Albutol.

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