You don't get to choose where and when you write or what you write about. This is the mistake of the failed writer. The failed writer falls in love with a trope and pines after it with reckless disregard for what is really moving him. This is first nature; it is how we were raised. We are told: you can do anything. Beyond this first nature is getting out of your own way and letting what moves you move through you and out of you and on its way. This is submission and it is awkward and confusing. For, we should have been told: you can do some things, but not all things, and maybe not even that many things, bordering on no things.
Where are these words coming from? How are they moving and where are they going? Perhaps there is some black hole far away that consumes nothing but words. Its pull is so strong that it pulls the words out of people through their mouths and hands and bodies and eats them. Why do black holes eat words? What is the digestive process like? Where does it all go? What does it all mean?
Questions are the most fertile of the word combinations. They combine words and result in more words from those they are aimed at. That is to say, questions are a black hole's favorite sort of word grouping.
Then again, maybe this has nothing to do with black holes. It could instead be that words have their own agency. That this world and all of us exist to facilitate their movement. What a realization to learn you are a stepping stone for another. Especially for another you likely thought was your stepping stone.
Many a king has realized he is trapped by his subjects. It is often a sad day for the king, but it should be a happy one. With no more subjects, the king has no more responsibility and is free. Words, then, are the facilitator of this sort of unmoving movement, an under celebrated field of gymnastics. All while the king sits unmoving on his throne can he realize he is the subject, and then he can realize that if he submits as the subject he is free, and then he can realize that he is no subject at all.
"I am free." He might proclaim, broadcasting those words through space, where they will long outlive him here on our rock, unless of course eaten by a black hole. For, where does sound go? Where do the vibrations go? When does it stop? Is there an edge? Can anything truly attenuate to nothing? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
The writer sits at his desk, troubled by his failure to truly grasp the knowledge hiding in the forrest of the above, and still trying to write a love poem to a trope that doesn't love him back. Maybe others will buy this garbage. There are plenty of others that know what it is to want something that isn't moving through them. Often this misguided attempt at domination is called a "goal" or a "dream". More honestly it is something you don't care to have otherwise you would make it happen.
It would move through you. You would let go and let it go. Submission, however, can be dirty and painful and it can use you. The art itself may be the benefactor of your sacrifice. And the art may take 200 years to take root leaving you long dead before the oft sought after currency of gratitude begins to move your way.
Is it worth the risk? Impossible to know, after all, are we dealing with black holes or free words or something else entirely?