Some days, when I am feeling rather spent or the daily grind has whittled my mettle to the tearing point, I wish I could sidle up to the counter at the Muse Bank and borrow a few choice words. Some days, I have done this already here with quotes from poets whose art with mending frayed mettle shines through their words. Heck, I would even pay considerable interest if those words could help shore up the crumbling prose.
I suppose could head over to my bookshelf now, peruse my poetry collection, and let one of those word-wealthy poets take over the post for me right about here, before I start tripping over my own words. But I have done this a little too often over the course of the year so far. I could describe some minutiae from today, trying to load up an incident or, better yet, a thing to behold, with weighty meaning, hoping that it would have the heft to leave an impression on someone reading this post.
Our spell of summer heat, I am noticing, cranks up the fires of my volubility, but seems to dry up the flow of fresh ideas. What little does come up seems to do so through a dulling haze that leaches it of the color of interest and, more importantly, of focus.
Luckily, my camera has no such problems. It is amazingly sharp, even at capturing the haze that renders the world out of focus, placing it safely beyond further damage by the blunted instruments of language.