I wonder if writing is like riding. Riding a bicycle that is. With hands that ache to retrace past steps, shaking off the dreadful mental dust and gripping the worn yet rusted handlebars, I find myself struggling to get the gears going. Slowly, slowly, slipping my feet in place, figuring out the motions again. Crash. I find myself wobbling side to side too much and in no time the bike and I have lost balance.
All is well, it turns out that writing is not too different from riding a bike. After a few crashes, with a steadiness, the pattern of churning forward returns, reawakening forgotten muscle memory. It’s not too hard to ride it in a circle. Loop after loop I start to make, my sluggish speed riding constant. After a while I realize how ridiculous it is, going in circles with no direction to take and stop my pedaling. It’s not like I was going any faster, or heading anywhere. I don’t even know why I bothered trying again. I might as well go back inside and go back to my mindlessness or something.
I stuff the bike back into the shed, dust drifting angrily upwards in the air when I opened the door and slowly resettling back down giving the bike a slightly fuzzy coating.
