It is a verbal diarrhea of poetic despair, of mountains of words heavily piled up high behind a 90-mile water wall, soon to burst and rush forth in a torrential downpour that threatens to flood all four corners of the earth and unleash the most unforgiving winter man has ever known.
You could choose to either speak or forever hold your peace; but like an obstinate child, you raise your hand up high at that final dramatic moment – only to have them drag you kicking and screaming out of the hall before you can even begin.
And then you sink to newer depths each and every day, pondering the life of a has-been and surrendering to routines to your chagrin. All that needs saying has already been said before, and all that needs doing has already been done in an encore.
What do you do when there is nothing left to give?