In front of me now, I have this piece.

I quite like this piece. It is short and it’s right as it is. The magic is in it. I feel it.

But I have a condition that stops me from sending it in.

It’s possibly not a disease a general practitioner would recognise, diagnose. A psychologist might name it as a fear of rejection, or at least a subtype of said fear.

I don’t have a block: I may be inert but I’m not impotent! I’m ripe with ideas from wild seeds that sprout onto my page. The seedlings reach a low-lying but rich equilibrium. Attached to me, they propagate underground, they find their own way to the light, and sometimes, sometimes they flower. Sometimes they fruit!

Rarely they fruit.

When they are grown enough to detach, I send these pieces of me to places where I am not known. I tend to avoid those who have expressed a liking for my words before. It’s best to leave them on a high, not to let my hopes fly, in case my works disappoint. Because rarely do they fruit.

But sometimes they do.

In front of me now, I have this piece.