98. The Desert of Ideas

I think I've written about everything of interest. Or maybe I've run out of interesting things to write about. I sat on our back deck and stared at the sun going down and tried to think of something to write about. Not having a job? Beer? The Higgs Boson? Redo Plato's Allegory of the Cave, but using television, and do it in a sonnet? Beer?

Maybe I should write about my curly, silver locks. 

Maybe I should give this whole gig up.

I'm all out of ideas for what to write;

the well is dry, or full of goo, not water.

An empty topic vista fills my sight;

I look, and there is nothing on the blotter.

I cannot write about the new red chair.

It's boring; nor is dinner worth your time.

What happened last night? Bah, you wouldn't care.

Besides, 'Attempted Coup' is hard to rhyme.

So I'll just sit and watch the sun descend

and toast the end of this long writing tour.

Or maybe one last bit of time I'll spend

and try to think of something this once more.

We're bathed in waves electric by the sun,

which resonate inside while...hey! I'm done!

Hunh. How many times can I get away with writing about not knowing what to write about?