The anxious writer is frustrated, like a junkie seeking the hit, the dealer is late, and he is getting upset as hell. He moans in front on the machine, darn, where is my inspiration, the stuff sends him into another dimension; allows a fertile imagination to go places, some light, mostly dark, where is the dealer, his nerves are at him, in frustration he thumps the table, I need my fix, shit, I will get a new supplier, frustration, he teeth chatter, he is feeling the withdrawal, he has to produce some words, he is a writer after all. Where do you go, he refuses to put words on the page, he is waiting, words, me, me, me.
To listen these days sighed Solomon, is so rare. So many want the attention, can they ever listen, the big man with the power, a junkie for attention, demands, takes what he wants, and worse than that, expects to get away with it. Where is this humility these believers are supposed to have, it is written in the books of old, a little respect. The husband who bosses the wife, sits, where is my meal, darn good cook though.
Write or listen, Solomon smiled, he heard a voice call out the Holy Name, he was heading home, to his temp abode, he laughed inside, the words of old were on many lips, and people were listening. To imagine, a gathering of folks, all sorts, listening to the prophets, wondering what Jesus was going to do next, while all Jesus did through his life, was encourage the kingdom of God, on earth. Listening is good too.
The junkie writer gets the hit, he launches into words, that will impress them he thinks. Jesus, just told the truth, amen.
paddypicasso 