Craft

I've begun to consider film-making as a hobby. Words don't seem to flow into pictures the way they once did for me:
I've neglected them too long.
Like an insecure lover they have taken my inattention to heart and hidden away their mystery and seduction.
In film-making I could recreate the images behind my eyes in some vain attempt to explain the words trapped in my head.

I went for ice cream, late, in the rain and stiff, cold breeze.
Stopped at a red light I blinked - it took seconds to close and then reopen my eyes.
The words are inadequate; I sat, staring blankly at the windshield, waiting patiently for the light to change, until my eyes closed in slow motion and had a nice long rest before finding the will to open again.
As if the long blink were not enough, the nearly constant stop action video played against my eyelids;
Addiction comes to me again and I yearn to watch blood flow up from the pale, soft flesh, until I can feel it burning away the chaos and unease.
Trapped in some poorly crafted script I reached for my ever present phone to reach out, but no one was available to take my call.

I am not unhappy but out of control. Or at least on the edge of letting go.
Again, the words seem benign -
The carefully balanced demands are skewing slightly and it seems a mere matter of time until balance is lost.
In the meantime, I've decided to try to lure the words back again. Film-making seems to distant a goal.