A lion without its roar.

I’ve been suffering writer’s block lately. And suffering is the right word. The irony of being surrounded by inspiration and brimming with thoughts and opinions to express, but not the clarity to articulate them is new to me. An impotent, fuse-less firework of ideas doesn’t travel far. Nor light up. Words; my companions, have never not come before and I’ve been a little lost at how to reconnect with them.

In my attempt to ‘get the creative juices flowing again’; if you will, I tried my hand at ‘blind writing’: closing my eyes (and my mind from distractions) and just letting my fingers type. I wanted to write about the plight of lions; of the Lion Aid event happening in London tomorrow; of the next installment of Cecil. But instead I got something entirely different:

Running wild

Freedom is not free

Weary from the weight,

Of interpreting the breeze.

Caged in the confines

Of choice. Decision-making

Is behind a screen,

Symbols on a page, confused for a voice.

Blowing me from here to there,

Empowering only

To make one powerless again.

Understanding slowly.

A breeze only rustles

Trees undivided into slices of white

For recording and filing.

And kisses the face: genuine.

But no bars

To stop me fighting bars.

And that is a blessing, true.

But somehow feels still a ruse.

How I long

To walk among

Colours so intense

And feelings so bright

To see the wildness

I feel inside

And see behind the eyes

Of the ones for whom we fight.