What do I say to you when the words won't come?

I would love to say something comparable to the struggling writers, to place myself in a writer setting of a coffee shop with cooling coffee in cup, by my computer, with no words written in the white box of the screen. Mu furrowed brow drawing the momentary attention of that one curious person sitting in the corner, reading a magazine (for few read newspapers, though this one might).

I can see it clearly, the coffee scene of stagnant thoughts, like clotted powdered creamer floating lazily on the very top of the brown drink's surface and flowing in the unseen eddies to the edge of the cup. My hair is also brown, thought I don't know why. It's really red. My face is not my own, I am some other struggling writer, fighting the good fight, sparing with my old friend/enemy/love: words.

This is all very romantic, you can see by the golden light streaming in through the shop windows and the crinkle of the newspaper the watcher in the corned decided they would trade the magazine for and in the "Ka-CHING" of the money drawer of the cash register springing out at the latest sale of a medium cup with three creams and two sugars.

But, this is not my life, and I do not and cannot (due to limited funds, freedom, and place staked out by destiny) exist in such a romantic setting, my body at rest, as my mind fights, feverishly, for a word, and against the need of words to be perfect before saved in the computer's files to be returned to later and realized, on second or third or seventh glance, that they are in face a work in progress.

No, I am not in the coffee shop, I am here. College. School. Higher Education. The land of new people, people you wish you didn't meet, new classes, wonderful classes, classes that bring tears to the eye (or maybe that is just lack of sleep), classes that confuse you, classes that are required, classes that you wish to take but never will as others must come first. The world of loud people and quiet people and people you think are judging you but aren't and people you know would never but do every day.

I am in college. I am a college student. I am currently running out of cereal and milk, and I need to remember to wash that one bowl I used earlier before I go to sleep. I am tired. I am tired but awake (for some reason) and trying to scrub away at the guilt I feel just to the left of center of my chest for not getting an article in sooner. I couldn't think of a single thing all day. Really.

I woke up, and by second four my mind is off to the races, gallivanting down roads it probably shouldn't but will and do anyway because, "well", it says, "it's better to be safe than sorry! Better to know than not!" But, today, my mind was still. And it was still as I went to breakfast, and it was still as I got dressed, and it was still as I attempted to do schoolwork.

Then it moved, for just a moment, as I did do my schoolwork, but the rusted cogs of my tired brain stopped again after the reading and I was left again with that tiny spot of guilt just to the left of center of my chest. I always have something to say, to write, to attempt to make people think about. But today, I had nothing.

I believe this was because I was trying to find something complicated withing a fog of Sunday slowness that only allows simple thoughts to flow in and through and out. It was only when one of my friends told me that I should writer about my problem (of not being able to) that the image of the woman in the coffee shop came to me. And now, here we are! Brilliant! The simplicity of the idea, and the fact that my friend and the idea came to me just at this moment, at this time of night.

Honestly, it excites me because it just shows that the slightest spark can send the writer off to the races, and not one in where it is a fight against the fleeting words which she has not been able to catch all day, but one in which the horses of the article she is trying to write slow down, or else she speeds up, and actually catches triumphantly the reigns.

I have caught the reigns again. Thank you friend, for your late night inspiration. I am now no longer a writer stuck in the mud of that muggy cup of coffee. I am free again.

And now, because I'm afraid I must bring you back to the real world with me (guests have to be shown out at some point, and I'm very tired), I'll leave you with the meaning of article wrapped up into a nice and neat package of a simple truth: Your brain will get tired, the horse of inspiration you rode with buck you off and the word horses will run away from you, and you will be left in the mud distraught. But, remember that the horse you ride is a fickle one, but one that loves any rider that can translate its mystery, and it will come back to you, and you will ride inspiration through the mud of sleepless days and nights and find again the pack of words that give human meaning to the horse you ride.