b ~ The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

There are days when the despair settles in. It wraps around you like a
blanket; seeps under your nails, wraps into your hair like the scent
of smoke. There seems to be no escape from the oppressive fog that
blocks your sight. Everywhere you look there is only grey.

Until something breaks through the clouds–a burst of sun. The yellow
beams peek though, weak at first but gaining momentum and strength. A
hand held out to the drowning.

Some days it doesn’t seem like you will ever write another word. If
this were a battle then the blank page is the clear and resounding
winner. But then you decide to be brave and attend an author lecture.
His words circle in the air like birds coming back from a winter away
and begin to lift your spirits. Everywhere you look people are getting
out their yellow ruled tablets and writing with their trusty
Ticonderoga pencils. The color speaks to your heart, such an antidote
to the grey of the past.

You head back to the car, feeling lighter as you pull out of the
parking garage. Looking at the road ahead of you, you’re sure that
those yellow lines on a grey road will lead you home.

About andi

Writer, editor, wrangler of small boys and dogs.

One comment

  1. Ah, the perils of the blank page… I hope the bird words have come home to roost for you!

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