Writer's Block

It’s emptiness, void of thought, of feeling, like a vacuum sucking you hollow of oxygen, feeling, and experiences among much else. Crumbs of thoughts clump into flimsy ideas turn into words scribbled down and subsequently, often violently scratched out, sometimes ripping through the page in front of you. Or, you watching your finger pushing down hard on the backspace key till nothing remains much like the abyss within you.

Nothing is right.

Nothing is right, but more importantly it is over-thought, pointless, boring, overcooked to a crisp like blackened toast. Your much-abused notebook page stares at you expectantly. The blank screen waits.

Your move.

You pick up and try once more. Some ten minutes later the whole sequence may repeat. After you have drained your laptop battery of all power, after you have crushed up several pieces of note paper smothered in black and blue ink, after your hands, palms and fingers are covered into smudges and calluses, somewhere between banging your head into the wall and morning:

It stops.

Or rather it starts. The dam bursts, the doors open, the silence erupts into beautiful chaos.

It is here that the pages come and do not stop.