My creativity feels like a stream of photons being scattershot through a pinhole. Hoping to magically land against photosensitive paper and thus become known.

To leap full formed like Athena from the head of Cronus.

But this pandemic and the life that has been forced on us because of it, bends away the light.

A black hole forcing away a mind used to the sounds of a raging river. Changing to the low hum of the background count.

And each day is a question. Is the cat alive or dead?

Will today be one which makes light?
Or simply a burden which necessitates the digging of a grave.

This slow spin down

Wondering when again I will wander in a direction strange.