An attempt to write myself out of a ditch, words spinning like wheels buried deep in the mud.
I will write, gas peddle to the floor, my thoughts fish-tailing to the left, then right, like the rear of a car stuck in a snowdrift.
Revving my mind, my brain lurching, nothing but the lingering stank of incomplete thoughts.
My skull creaks as the stream of consciousness strains to gain traction.
The road was there once, under my tires, with my words humming along like the rubber against pavement.
Turning the dial on the radio in search of something familiar, a playlist that plucks at my heart strings, something to inspire.
Not willing to risk the random I preload songs that have touched the sweet spot of feeling before.
After an initial twang and a thump in my chest, I feel the momentum leaking out of the right side of my brain like exhaust from an old tailpipe.
With only the tendrils of a few sentences lying in front of me, I am forced to pull over to the side of the road, frustrated and unsure of where to go next.
My thoughts begin to wander off into the woods on foot, leaving only faint impressions on the air between my ears.
It seems as though I may have run out of gas.
— Joy Dwyer