I wake early on weekends to a ritual of writing and drinking the life giving elixir. My temple is the abode of the green mermaid, where she summons the weak with her siren songs. It’s said that she has no soul.
This is where words are born in my mind and placed in ambiguous order; meanings known only to my soul until the rational mind unscrambles the mess. It’s hard to be profound with the loud world music in the background.
Trouble brews when the temple is filling to capacity. They want my table. They don’t know I’m trying to weave a fabric of words that will change their understanding of (place question mark here). I am lost without my muse.
A change of venue is in order. I’ve lost my purpose and words. My teeth are stained and my mind is no longer malleable. I’m invisible to the passion that once inhibited my soul. I’m cast in an ocean of blackness where the green mermaid reigns.