with trowel and mortar in one hand, discarded shoelace and torn scrap of paper in the other, and after too long, i find myself ready again for battle

I once proudly wore the moniker “wordsmith” – a dirty, red brick on my shoulder that was equal parts chip to be knocked off, cornerstone to build great edifices of conversation, and missile to carry argument through window pane.

As I rove a distant corner of the vacant lot that has been my creative self - a barren place of decay and rubble and dull throbbing and grey - I shuffle my feet through the dust and watch the cloud billow and swirl and settle. My mind is at once everywhere and nowhere until the flash of brilliant white that accompanies pain as a toe meets a corner in the dark - the corner of a dirty, red brick.

The dry earth surrounding it, packed hard with neglect, chafes and leaves my knuckles bloody, but it feels good. It feels good to be down low and raw and rough. It feels good to claw and dig and tear away at the debris. It feels good to have my brick back.