What are you waiting for?

I keep looking for inspiration despite the void that lays before me. My muse takes pleasure when I am faced with nothing but my own state of being. She weaves the empty strings into a halo, an angel of divine destruction, dancing to the sound of absence.

Words lose meaning, reduced to mutterings spoken by mad prophets who saw behind the curtain and laughed for eternity. Writing is deconstructed, broken down into absurd components; scratched markings on a sheet of tree. The further I enter the void the more I navel-gaze and see the hall of mirrors, trying to order the chaos into something I can swallow; I taste of restlessness, like frictionless musings wrapped in tissue paper.

Starved of content my stomach sucks on the pit of itself, attempting to draw sweet nectar but there is too much nothing in front of me, only the hollowed self begging for a story, to soak in the warmth of a narrative so I might flip through such pages and listen to the rustling of prose; all I hear are her steps, the slap of feet on wet stone while she walks in circles and points to everything: everything and nothing, her smile as clear as the space between us, goading me as she always does on quiet nights with the tease of her hips. She laughs, the sound beautiful in the way it cuts.

What are you waiting for?

And so I do what I cannot.

I write.