Imuse, as my spacebar calls it

I need something fancier than Notepad to write anything worthwhile. Imuse. Yes, and a functional space bar wouldhelp. I think back, unravel the memory loops to go as farback as possible. Thinking of how writing came to me **. As a soothing poultice on the forehead of an inky night's turmoil. As the unexpected gushing-forth of fevered creativity from a schoolgirl's fountain pen. As the strutting pride of a child's desperate attempt to impress her hero. I have none of those anymore - not the first rhyming poem, neither the continuance of a paragraph from Kidnapped, certainly not the essay about a stormy night.

You tempt me now, an hour away frommidnight. I wiggle my fingers and write tentatively, coaxing words out of a stultified imagination.

Tonight, I write for me. No pressure to outperform, to wittily summarize, engage or enamor. Tonight, you are mine to mold and twist, to sweep to heights, to plumb the depths, to bridge the growing chasm. I wonder, at a time when I hoped to befriend you, have you at last abandoned me?

** (how can one not draw references to Neruda, when plagued by writer's block?)