Confusion tells me to keep thinking. Think hard and all the answers will come running toward me, like an army of puzzle pieces on a mad spree from the dusty box in which they were encased for half a century. Frayed and mildewy. I’m stuck in cobwebs waiting for those little guys charging with swords to free me from the sticky fog. It’s not evaporating any time soon. Not while we’re stuck in the gloom.
Answers don’t fall into place in the gloom. They swim and float and drift. A lot of drifting. And hanging. Dangling like glistening droplets of dew. If I reach too fast, they’ll break and…splat. I’ll have less answers than I did before.
I’m empty. Wishing for more. Waiting for inspiration in a dry well. There’s not much to see around here. It’s dark. Black almost. If there weren’t echoes, I’d think no one was here. I hope there’s something. I hope it approaches and pokes me on the nose. Says, “here I was the whole time, and now I’m in your face telling you to wake up.”