I close my eyes and lean back on the couch, seeking that daydream state. Somewhere, in the depths of my racial memories, in the murky brackish water of my subconscious swamp, there must be the germ of an idea and the seed of a mighty creative work waiting to be discovered.
I dream of root tendrils seeking nutrients from the creative clay, the humus of ideas past, now fallen and decaying slowly. In my imagination, the leaves rot to form another, fresh layer of nutrients that will feed tomorrow’s ideas. My roots try to find some purchase, some magic blossom of a simple, brilliant epiphany.
Somewhere back there, in the buried creative remains of my own and other authors must be the rapture that daydreaming sometimes turns up.
I can’t find it, not today, not this week. The racial creativity myth is a fable. My ancestors cannot or will not help me.
I don’t taste the sweet honey of any fresh ideas.
The only flavors I can find are rotten acorns and blind grubs, and slimy, wet black mosses that taste like death. The root of the problem lies inside the author. He has character, but it must be rotten.
200 words. Uninspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt: