An excerpt from a day in that life....so long ago

Days and weeks passed. I remained unnoticed, provoked my own isolation and stared into the blankness of my living room. Rain. Soft thoughts and memories of convicts as they laughed, hands joined as they walked in the rain. Rainbow-skied reflections in steel prison puddles. We were, sometimes, ironically, happy. The beauty of some morning-bright sunrises tauntingly escaped my pen. I just couldn’t catch the words. Writers’ minds - be they poets, journalists, classicists - must be painful things, always, because of all that never gets written. Unspeakable, unprintable things occur in a day, or an hour, or in some unreachable recess of their mind.