The truth is not easy, whatever the medium. The cursor blinks and waits. You sip your tea and wait. Your hands dance over the keys wildly for a moment, then hesitate. You read the words and press the delete key. And then there is only emptiness again, and waiting again. For some spark, some light, some flash of truth to flow through your mind and pour out of your fingers.
Some days, it happens. Truth pours out, veiled in colors, in stories, in poems, in light, in shadow, in notes, in rhythms, in sounds, in movement.
Some days, there is only waiting, and the blinking cursor, the blank canvas, the silence, the stillness.
The waiting is not easy, nor is the doing, nor is knowing when to do which.