Nothing fills the heart of this writer to the brim more than
a love lost, nothing makes her hand quiver with anticipation more than a
conflict of thoughts. The state of a citys affair in disarray, or the ignorance
or turpitude ways of an acquaintance are what burn through my body and stirs my
soul. Discontent then is the Mordor of my Middle earth. It’s this dark, morbid place which fuels the
chariots of words and bridges the distances with sentences. I must admit it has been a while since
I was there, and hence the dip in my writing curve. But how must one
orchestrate a conscious trip to this land of the discontent? To do so is
fraught with peril. On one hand as
the writing suffers you are prompted to delve into the dark murky waters to
resurrect the black genius, on the other hand, bidding goodbye to the happy
place consciously is perhaps contrary to rationality, with the return not
eminent, it is a risk a writer often takes. But this conscious journey can not
always be willed, and what must then a writer do? In such grey times the writer
expresses her discontent with the absence of discontent.
