A Failure of Subject

So today is yet another one of those days when the cursor is just sitting there at me blinking, wondering if I am going to write anything.
I hate it, of course.  There it sits blinking on and off, black and white, the visible/invisible line between myself and my writing.  Although it is really not between me and my writing at all.  It is not as if the cursor is the thing that prevents me from finding my inner muse, it is myself.

There are mornings like this, of course, where the brain has nothing to offer and creativity flicker has taken leave and gone to where such creative things go for the winter.  I wish I knew where it went - it is not as if I had have plenty on my mind or other things that needed writing about.  But for some reason, all of this has disappeared at the very moment I need it to use, leaving me with only a bit of a headache and a blinking cursor.

It happens, of course.  I just need to reconcile myself to this, let it go as I would let a bad throw go, and start over tomorrow, confident that a new thought will present itself for consideration.

But in the back of my mind I still wonder:  where did it go?  Because if I could only find that place and recapture it, how wonderful would that be?