To write with a writer's voice for once...Thinking an unfamiliar city would provide endless words for the page (musings on the nature of human endeavour bounded by horizontal and vertical lines), I took off. But on arrival, the very strangeness was overwhelming. Repeated, delicious jolts to my senses made it impossible to notice the little details of life, to have any thought unthought by other visitors - how big, how fast, how busy...
Too occupied with being there, taken up with each new moment. It turns out there was nothing I needed to say.
No spark of mundane inspiration.
This provided me with a clue to the source of my own well of words - boredom, sameness, routine. Only when every detail of every day remains the same can I detect the jarring moment of incongruity. A young plane tree leaf, tossed like a translucent kite above my head, only appears in the corner of my eye when the rest of my mind is quiet.
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