write about a well

That's the prompt from Judy Reeves' A Writer's Book of Days. A well? Are you kidding me? Okay, okay, quit your bitching and get to it.

I think of ink wells, first and move immediately onto wells of emotion. A welling up--isn't that what I did last night? Speaking of last night, I remember my friend whose mother-in-law just passed away and how I haven't had a chance to tell her how sorry I am. Wells. And then I'm back to the welling up of longing, the desire for talent and proliferation in my writing. But still, nothing. Wells. Wells. Well, well--I wish it were a deep conversation (now I'm 6 years old). But I'm just not feeling this topic--it's just not working for the nearly drunk me of the moment, the me that needs something less concrete, something more abstract, something that pulls me out of myself and helps me to ponder the greater mysteries of life (or at least the greater mysteries of this minute).

I'm no Hemingway, that's clear. I just can't do this now, even when I'm only "almost drunk."