Can Whimsy Die?
Foreword I haven’t written a word yet this year. Well, I’ve texted. I changed a line in a poem, too. I also made notes for a Youtube video- sorry, I started making notes for a Youtube video. I haven’t properly written, though. No prose or the like. Not until now, at least. The me of January 2024 would have been mildly embarrassed by this. What sort of ‘proper’ writer gets two (plus a day) whole weeks into the new year and hasn’t written a word? Is what I would have thought. Fortunately- and it is fortunate, because the agonising self-torment one engages in as an egotistical tortured artist is truly exhausting- I don’t really care anymore. Art is art because it's an authentic expression of one’s self. That’s how I’ve learned to see it. My writing will be written when it's time to write and not a moment sooner. With that preamble, I present to you- a middling piece of flash fiction that I had not even remotely planned out before I started typing. Can Whimsy Die? Grief is a f...