©2022 Michael Raven
Fingers stretching, not quite able to grasp onto that object close enough to touch, but not close enough to draw back to you, to pull it in and tuck it inside so that it can burst forth from you like a bright laser light.
That’s how I feel these days. So if any of my writing seemed strained, be assured that this is the act going on while I write, this fingertip dance of trying to get enough friction to roll that ball towards me and swallow it like a red-hot ball of iron, choking it down to burn me from the inside out.
Something is just this close and I cannot seem to take it up and throw it back out.
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!, I shout at the blank wall that I imagine to be a mirror. A tired face stares back, bored with my antics.
I don’t want to talk. Don’t call me. Words are empty.
sceadugenga 
A frustrating feeling. I find these times come and go with no rhyme or reason.
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They do. And lately, more frequently for me.
This particular episode has been lingering since about half-way through the Portland phase of my trip; that tip-of-my-tongue feeling, like if I just found a single right word, it would all suddenly make sense and cascade out of me like a waterfall of ideas.
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