I am in dire need of rebooting my mojo, that je n’est ce pas that eludes me every now and then. Shall I wait for a knight on his steed to rescue me from this tower of uncertainty? By letting my down my hair, in this case, my insecurities, my back would lighten and my shoulders would remain upright. Knowing my luck, my knight would ride off-course until unknown territory, lost in a forest of regret and half-arched dreams. No available GPS to help me pinpoint the exact address of my sidetracked diva.
Perhaps, I shall apologize for misnaming this misplaced feeling. I am an addict and I require a shot in the arm to cleanse my unsatisfied palate. Withdrawal is inevitable. The uncontrollable shakes and midnight sweat sessions plague my mind. No need for methadone. It will not work. It cannot contain me. I am far too immune. I do not crave full attention – just a dip of my toe in the writing waters that seem vast. Drowning in it is not required. I prefer bathing or simmering a bit.
Am I dramatic? A bit. But, I am a writer. Hence, the need for flowery prose is salacious. The words are the foreplay to the ultimate climax we covet. I am not asking for multiple turns. Just one good, toe-twisting turn will do, causing me to speak in tongues until I cry out in praise of a certain deity. We know his or her name; no need for name-dropping at the moment.
Take my card. Dispense whatever knowledge you can upon me. I’m waiting. You know my number. – ©2014, Latanya Ivey