Hiatus

I haven't written anything in months.
Now even this blog entry is a struggle.
Yet I'd be alright if this struggle to write was my only impediment.
I also feel guilty for not writing anything in months.
(I imagine my guilt would've been unbearable if I did actually consider myself a writer.)

Writers who've given up writing, or at least have gone on a hiatus, must find it incredibly difficult to start again.
I think the only solution is to write yourself out of a hiatus.
Sort of what I'm trying to do here.

But writing after a long break can so easily become a descent into ramble.
A writer should know when to stop.
So I stop.
Instead, I present something exponentially better written—by Emily Dickinson.
It's about (I think) death, which, I suspect, is nothing more than a hiatus.

A Clock Stopped

A Clock stopped -- not the mantel's
   Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing
   That just now dangled still.

An awe came on the trinket!
   The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
   Into degreeless noon.

It will not stir for doctors,
   This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
   While cool, concernless No

Nods from the gilded pointers,
   Nods from seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
   The dial life and him.