I Got Nothing

Sometimes words pour forth from this head of mine. Like a mountain stream, they tumble and tumble over one another faster than the rest of me can keep up. They come to me in my sleep, haunt me in the shower, and interrupt me mid-speech. They wait for me to position myself such that I can bring them to life, to spring from my fingertips, joyful and alive! Other times they still come, a tad more laboriously, but they still come. There for the taking, they are, like ripe cherries hanging from a tree in front of my face, waiting to be plucked.

But today, I got nothing. It’s as if the very stillness I seek as I sit on my meditation cushion has found me instead. It’s seeped in through my ear holes, snuck in through my eye sockets and crept through the nasal passages up, up, up straight into the old noggin, settling there like some flaccid idea. It waited until I was focused elsewhere (or rather nowhere which is the goal of meditation) then crept in to replace the synapses that used to find a playground in these folds of dark grey matter. Today my mountain stream has dried up. It’s more like an arid wasteland in there with nary a breath of wind to stir up a thing worth sharing.

So that’s all I got to say today. Nothing. I got nothing.