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Photo by Erick Zajac on Unsplash

Cerridwen, Goddess of inspiration, grant me a drop from your great cauldron. Let the breath of your awen sing through my body, reigniting my spark. Cerridwen, Mother of bards, my fire has sizzled out. I have nothing left to give.

Somewhere in the loop of trying and failing I’ve lost my will to try again. Must I document my attempts in order to be granted this reprieve? If I tattoo them across my skin will that stop the shaking heads, the “looks”?

words i words i wordsinone…none

What happens to a bard who loses her voice?

It is the lot of artists to scream scream scream into the void, and echo back soundless. We, the personification of that silence on the other end of the phone when you pick up and no one’s there: except there was something, you could almost swear…

“Who is it?” your husband asks.

“No one,” you reply.

The whisper, only half formed, rides in your ear all day. An absence of substance, taking up space.

Why is trying not enough? Is this so childish a question as it seems?

“I thought I could do good,” said the Idealist.

“I saw how it could be and it was beautiful,” sighed the Dreamer.

“I wanted to make it better,” admitted the Savior, “I had so many ideas.”

“I tried,” whispered the Child, “I tried so hard.”

When there is an echo it is cruel: not enough, not enough, not enough.

Sacred awen, breath of divine inspiration, blow me a new course. That, or rearrange these bits of shredded hopes into something that makes sense again. If there is life left in these dreams resuscitate them for me, else bear them away to a peaceful grave.

They deserve no less. They were good dreams.