I haven't raised a paintbrush in almost a year. I yearn for the swooning scent of linseed oil, the rancid odor of turpentine that coats the air with a thickness only i can appreciate. I miss the rythm of the brush, loaded with paint, caressing the primed canvas in unison with the crescendos of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. I still play that Messiah CD... in traffic... on my way to work. But it isn't the same. It's void of the satisfaction and content... this feeling where you'd just have to roll your eyes back and heave a heavy sigh.

In August last year, I took advanced lessons in Oil. There was a gallery show to culminate the course. So much appreciation. Someone even wanted to buy my work. I was so inspired to create more. I did a couple more. But then the inspiration faded. I had to work.

I haven't written a poem in months. I have notebooks to keep all my creations in place. And I bought a nice ring-bound leather notebook, with the kind of paper that had fine, unbroken lines... and was thick enough to hold erasure over erasure. It hasn't been filled. I miss the days where I could just whip out a pen and scribble a verse. I had another notebook, it is now rusty and worn, because of the number of writings... I wonder when my nice leather notebook would be in such a way. Rusty and worn is good. It shows me how much passion is between the lines, amongst the pages. It reminds me how I couldn't bear separation from writing, how I couldn't stand not having a pen furiously engraving inspired words into a page. I'm having separation anxiety for that separation anxiety. I wonder where my other poems are now. Lost in between notes, presentation sheets, business reviews, creative briefs.

I guess that's what I am right now. Lost. Without canvas or quill. Lost to a keyboard and Times New Roman. My hands move differently now. They don't sway, they don't caress, they don't hold a pen in furious passion.

Where do I work you ask? Why do I keep myself in such an uncreative rut? I work at an advertising agency. Go figure.