Pages before me. Each one filled with lines that swirl and connect into words that flow from my mind, never ending, wanting to be heard. Obstacles show themselves, keeping the words from telling their tale, damning them to be forgotten, driven back into the mist from which they slithered. How do I clear the debris that threatens to clog creativity to only a trickle? Concentration flits between subject to subject, never holding onto one long enough to bring a thought to fruition. A-B-C, 1-2-3, yes-no-maybe, to do or not to do. Forcing only causes water to slip though my fingers, while allowing to wander leaves fly away in the wind. Words flow through a mind filled with clutter, no end in sight, no savior on white horse on the horizon awaits, lost and alone, the battle drags on into the night.