Again
Have we run out of stories to tell, I wonder.
Could it be that every possible cliché has made the journey from pen to paper?
We mix and match, we copy and paste.
Is any new idea ever truly original?
Or just a rehashed version of someone else’s excellence.
We are told to imitate, yet told to differentiate.
Our amorphous thoughts are already plagued by bias;
Influenced by infinite ripples of human thought nudging our minds ever so subtly.
We strive to conjure tales unheard of,
Tales of love,
Tales of hardship,
Tales of bravery,
And now a million paths unfurl in front of me.
Yet, I see they have all been worn of travel,
Their sights and sounds already explored,
Their mysteries solved and put to rest six feet under.
I drop my pen, not a word yet written,
Defeated by this insurmountable task.
My eyes close as I lend an ear to my deepest whims,
I hear a faint whisper, a voice from within.
Full of hope, urging me not to give in.
Perhaps it’s okay to dig up some graves,
And tread through roads familiar and fond.
Perhaps I’ll tell a story told time and again,
Only this time, through the lens of my pen, profound.
