I am paused, it would seem.
What once thumbed eyelids open
mid-slumber to catch a phrase
in the act of art-making,
oblivious to its inopportune timing,
itself now surrenders to a vacuous torpor;
that state of being
unpossessed of the noteworthy
the mind an unoccupied territory;
a blank page
staring at its snow-blind twin
framed in a mocking mirror of doubt,
resurrecting the spectre of that
which first ever got in your way,
that sense of not belonging,
having nothing to say.

I am paused now, it seems.
And that which once closed my mind to the task,
that exclusion buffer of insecurity, inadequacy
the certainty that this role does not belong to me,
or the inverse, more accurately,
through third party prompting
no longer stands in the between,
words here trailing, to which are testimony –
I no longer hit pause – I hit start.