Storytelling on Pause

⚡When no tale was itching to be told, a storyteller was in danger of becoming lost.

Words were the currency used to purchase their identity.

A storyteller with a blank mind possessed blank eyes,

weeping meaningless tears,

saying nothing.

What was the purpose of an imagination without fire?

How long could a writer go without tapping creative energy

before they forfeited their right to call themselves an author?

If they shrank small enough

could they penetrate the core of that mystery❓

Had their talent been taken—?

once owned, now stolen?

Were they cut off from it—?

a font now forbidden,

a ritual they could no longer perform?

Was it ever theirs to begin with—?

previously on loan and now permanently returned to its Source,

without a receipt?

Playing the detective was _exhausting!

That genre wasn't their forte.

Define "impetus".

Inspiration couldn't be forced;

they accepted that;

but they had always been able to coax it.

They listened for stories.

Their ears were specially tuned for gossip.

"Can you believe that so-&-so was doing this!"

"So-&-so got caught doing that!"

"Nobody's doing that to me!"

"I ain't got time for all that!"

It was fascinating what punched people's buttons,

what triggered them to jump when they should hold still.

In their opinion,

the perfect character arc was when the protagonist 🧨reacted,

💥REACTED 💥,

🎇💥💥Always Reacted 🎆💥💥💥💥

to the same small provocations,

until they finally

*✨~Evolved~✨*

by recognizing the real traumas that caused those reactions.

⚡____________⚡

In this moment,

sadly,

all the disturbances were still.

⚡____________⚡

The storyteller had nothing to build upon,

no door open to dialogue to hinge action upon

(or vice versa).

Sighing,

they abandoned their keyboard,

searching a long time to find the timeless tools.

Once discovered,

they relaxed.

.....

⚡Suddenly⚡

Impressions approached from Everywhere

>>>>>>> colliding<<<<<<<<<

burrowing into bones, blood, & brain:

Visions thundering from the West bringing tumbleweeds

earthquake rumbles

and Hollywood search lights,

Visions blaring from the East begetting innovations

tidal waves of immigrants

and Broadway tunes,

Visions blown out of the North—frosty

greedy

jingling,

Visions surging from the South—scalding,

sexy

syncopated,

And in the Heartland where the storyteller's heart beat

all the unfiltered phrases swirled like a swarm inside a tornado, twisting, convulsing, ROARING, quieting, expanding

...imploding...

A cleansing storm🌧gathered above the wordsmith⛈

preparing to wash their Ego away🌧 .

The images melted.

History coalesced.

Heredity congealed.

They comprehended they could be

He

She

Anyone

Everyone.

....~no one~....

Anywhere

Everywhere

...~nowhere~....

Motivation crawled out of the mire.

Instead of trying to lure it,

they stood back to watch.

⚡____________⚡

The author had felt unraveled,

but they sensed the threads could be gathered up

—knitted together—

not as before—

but into a unique raiment,

something $tR@nGE

trailblazing

fresh.

Their psyche was re-calibrating.

They had never been paralyzed

only marinating.

Seeds had been planted.

🌻

A new Storyteller picked up their pen.

Staring down at the blank page, they took a deep breath.

They consciously/willfully smiled.

They Awaited Emerging Ideas.

_______________Bolt⚡