Vacillating?

I am not the writer I once was.

Yet are we ever? While lately I keep scraping out minor compositions, there is a very consequential, compelling piece that is clawing inside me, burning to be composed.

I seem to feel rather listless because of it...It's like trying to pull out an extremely stubborn thorn with oily fingers.

Words, words! Everybody wants words. I can only speak in the equivocal, the convoluted, the coy...so it seems.

What if I've none to give?

At the very least, you may have all the mysteries you desire
from me.