Blank Page

Little by little, frustration takes hold of my lethargy

Seated early in the morning, pen in hand,
a coffee at my side, a cigarette resting on the ashtray.
Symmetrically, a sheet of paper fits
into this almost photographable perspective.

Jazz notes in the background,
a ray of sunshine crosses the room.
The day announces to be productive.

It’s time to get started.
A title? I fill it in... 
but I’m not convinced.
I cross it out, I scribble.

I feel inspired to talk about everything,
but nothing gets off to a flying start.
I put the pen down…

Finally, I step back from the keyboard,
only to admit to myself: 
my writings betray modernity.

Well, first strategy for inspiration?
A healthy mind in a healthy body:
I leave my sanctuary for another house.
A little walk to get my legs going.

I need to stop smoking: I’m out of breath.
A good topic… perhaps I’ll write about that.
I return to the temple, I occupy the space.
Ideas pass as I punch a bag.

This meditative form has the desired effect on me.
After the session, time to go back.
I sway before sitting down;
I need to eat.

I tell myself I have enough material to write a book.
Oh, what if I talked about this or that?
Serious articles, funny stories?
The sheet of paper is replaced by a glowing screen…

But between exercise and digestion,
my eyes squint.
A yawn, 
then two, then three escape.
State close to cerebral death,
I zone out on this canvas.

I write a few passages.
I’m not convinced.
Little by little, frustration
takes hold of my lethargy.

If everything always worked as planned,
I imagine that moments would be devoid of a certain magic.
The day moves on at this pace.

Sometimes, even the best conditions
do not help lay down this morass of ideas.
To externalize all this noise
into a tangible form.

I sulk in my space. 
I give up.
Sometimes, moving on 
is the best thing to do.

Late tonight, on my way home from a concert,
unconsciously, in my thoughts...
Between two stops
my blank page repents.