The Last Day I will write?

I woke up today, tired as usual, but clear-headed for once.  A week ago I set up a daily schedule in an attempt to find some good, solid time for writing.  I won’t go into the banal details of my life which made this effort necessary.  Let me say simply that I have unavoidable duties which take up about 75% of my waking day, and writing and my paid teaching must live in the remainder.

So….this morning I woke up after a short and fitful night’s sleep to the cold, grim realisation that this schedule was not working.  I have written nothing since last Wednesday, and even then it was a piddling, fiddling around with photographs for a book I will finish.  No writing.  No words that fly and sing, or plunge to the depths.  None.
So I lay there and came to the calm, considered realisation that i had run out of time to write.  I have been writing for more than ten years now and have a clutch of books to my name.  But four years ago I decided to write things that were me – good, pure, unadulterated works of imagination and verve and fire – poetry, prose-poems, an experimental multimedia work – and some history that interested me.
Well, at this precise moment, I have finished my morning rota of duties, and have eaten and am on my second mug of coffee.  This fuel has given me the energy to allow myself a last day to write – I will go to church to pray and meditate – then see what unfolds today.  I will not force it – poetry is my marker – will any words rise out of me?  Or will that blank emptiness that has been my writing continue?  
Well, enough for now.  

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