I kind of like the term eyes wide shut. No, not the Kubrick film, although all those elaborate masks were pretty. I'm referring to your resistance to sleepwalk with me. I'm sorry, I can't guide you when your mind is on things out there in your "real" world.
Remember all those years you were busy roofing and couldn't write even when you felt the urge? Too tired, I think, was your excuse. Lack of creative juice, I remember, was your diagnosis.
No. Your eyes were not wide shut when you looked at me. It really hurt my feelings because I was standing right in front of you.
Yet you kept your journals, pouring out words, and I thought, there's hope yet. If only you would stop trying so hard.
Remember how you overcame your problem? You sat down one night and gave yourself over to me. And suddenly, you saw the slew of Vikings descending down the hill, with your long-haired slave riding in the middle. And your knight-hero watching the enemy coming down, with blood lust and battle cries in the air.
Oh, that was an awful, awful story you wrote. The terrible knights who talked like SEAL boys; the Viking berserker who was into mind control; the horrid, horrid 'nays' and 'sirrahs,' the heroine who was six foot tall and kickass like kungfu goddess Chieng Pei Pei in her prime. Hahahahahahahaha.
But that moment freed me from my imprisonment. The words flowed, I had a great time watching you rummage in that treasure box, looking at pieces of your lost soul.
These days I feel you looking for them again. Where have you hidden them this time, writer? Are your eyes wide shut?