opening up.

the spring breeze descended like breath from God into lazarus' nostrils.
it seemed to inject new life into the city, rescuing it from what seemed to be an eternity of doldrums.

the breeze swirled around him, a sort of caress that rang familiar with him, a grandmotherly hug that had a scent with it, a reminscient of simple things that had brought him to where he was today.

he thought about that. the past few days had been weighed down with sundry reflective moments, stress ridden sequences that often ended in induced naps. he was getting lost in himself, lost in his disillusionment with his life. the breeze, if only for a moment, became a symbolic juggernaut that shook him out of his despondent trance.

assuming the role of omniscient onlooker, he strolled down the street and gazed at himself, the figure sitting on the stoop, crowding a small red book and thinking too deeply about things he was too lazy to change. he quickly made his assessments, then flashed back into his body to ponder the diagnosis.

it shamed him. he had become an artist who's greatest artistry was deceit. he'd considered the before, but never faced it head on, because the impact it might have scared him to bits. for the first time though, he looked his reality dead in the face, and he realized it was much worse than he could have hoped to imagine.

how he had managed to keep up the facade of talent so long simply baffled him. he had fooled so many people, on the surface he had even hoodwinked himself, to the extent that he thought he might be developing a split personality. he hadn't written anything in months, but was still routinely called on for advice in writing problems. he found very little value or depth in his music but he waxed philosophical about his creative process almost daily. there was an image in his head of the Oreck door-to-door salesman coming home after a succesful day's work, only to be reduced to a sobbing mess when he looked at the mess that was his own apartment, filthy and drowning in the irony of broken vaccuum cleaners strewn about the room.

where was his integrity? what was missing? he loved to create but he couldn't.

the truth was, the raw force of creation had escaped him, slipping out of his grasp while he contemplated the depth of his navel incessantly. he had become concerned with the end result so thoroughly that the honesty found in self expression had been left no air to breathe.

he hoped it hadn't died yet.