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Writer's Block

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Words are supposed to be melodies flowing from my hands like rivers filling the page with idioms and metaphors. Drawing truth and passion from dull everyday life. Yet my words contain nothing, I have nothing I can say. That isn’t true I have much to say and much to express, but I can’t find a way to do so. It is like an unspoken word glistening on the end of your tongue. You can’t speak it, but it is there hovering, and your very soul is begging your lips to release it. This is what this is like. I cannot express myself through words. Even this is a mediocre and pathetic attempt at communicating with you my readers; that is if this is ever read by anyone, which it must be. It must be read, because it is all I have left. Frustration leaks from behind my eye lids. I have something to say, something important, I promise you. This isn’t a waste of time. I just can’t seem to put it together and release it. It is almost like a physical pain. I have always been able to express myself with a bend of wrist and the movements of my fingers and there at the tip of my pen is a long line of words, delicately woven like a spider’s web, carefully positioned, and painstakingly executed all within seconds, and there gleaming on the paper is a trace of my soul left behind for future generations to find and cherish. But now, I cannot put on my paper what I truly mean, what is happening inside my soul. As of yet I can’t seem to tell if I am writing my life’s story which I pray I am not, because my life story is painfully dull and inept and full of meaningless hypocrisy, or whether I am trying to capture the resemblance of life in a fantastical fiction novel. I can’t place it. I need to write the truth, but yet how can I convey the truth within a story. I most certainly am not using myself as a main character. How horrifying would it be if I had to place my silly, dejected self upon paper for the whole world to see, criticize and scrutinize. No it must be a work of fiction, but it must be the truth, because I do have something very truthful, indeed to share with you all.

Just there! For a moment I sat quiet waiting for my muse to whisper in my ear what is to be written, and alas, she did not come! I still have not a thing to share that is worth sharing, words worth writing, and I am wasting my paper, with nonsensical ramblings. Oh woe the irony of life. I am possessed by the writing spirit and yet have nothing to write. What can I tell you, what could I say? I have nothing, I am an empty sieve. Purpose has settled into my bones, and I must share with you, but I cannot figure out how. Allow me to tell you about a chair. A chair is solid with four legs. See, right there that is all that can be writ! No flowery language flows from me, because simply that is what a chair physically is, stable, solid, with four legs. If anything of what I have described is missing from your chair, alas I must warn you, you have a broken chair, and a broken chair is quite a bit different from a chair, and I will advise you not to sit on it!
Allow me to tell you about my heart. Now this is quite a bit harder to describe. What my heart wants most in this life is another heart to love. My heart has no other to love, and it beats for the love of things, and has none of it. My heart has learned to hold itself, and rebuild itself when it becomes broken. My heart is quite stubborn, and hard headed. It complains of loneliness, and yet I tell my heart that it is because of its stubbornness and inability to trust. If only my silly, fickle heart could put down its walls then perhaps a person could glimpse it and love it. But my heart has none of it. It is not a flowery and romantic vessel. It is wounded and bandaged up. Sometimes I suspect though, that if only my heart would hand over its crutches, my heart would find itself able to move on its own, but alas my damn heart wants to play the victim! And it won’t listen to a word of reason. It is quite illogical.
Allow me to tell you of my feet. My feet are battered and dirty things. They hate it when I bind them with shoes and socks. They ache to feel the soil beneath their toes, and the warmth of stone. Oh but how you should see them come running back to me, when they step on a loose stone. Blubbering and tearful, promising that their listen was learned. But it they never do learn. Sometimes these feet of mine take me on a long journey, I don’t realize until it is too late, that my intended route had been hijacked by my co-conspiring feet. They are wicked clever, and very determined. They know where they want to be, and will find a way to get there. I have to be careful of the little devils, or I am bound to be double crossed, doubly, by both feet. I do try to pretty them up a bit, because they aren’t a pretty lot, scabbed and covered in dirt from their misguided adventures. I try to paint the nails colorful and vibrant, but the feet complain that I am favoring one over the other, or that I am being to “motherly” to one and that is quite unfair. They are never satisfied. How they would love to travel and explore each day, climbing trees and jumping from rock to rock, and becoming caked with mud and sand. They would truly be content to roam the Earth forever, sole to dirt, connected, but I have to remind them as it is my duty to do so, that they aren’t the only ones with needs around here. They are become quite unagreeable after I remind them of this. So please whisper around my feet, they are very sensitive.
Should I tell you of my mouth? My mouth has quite the knack of getting into trouble. It never speaks when it should and always speaks when it shouldn’t. I clasp my hands over my fangled lips and try to keep them from speaking, but it never works. My mouth releases the sound of a high, fast talking voice that annoys passerby who stare at my Minnie Mouse voice, in ill-disguised irritability as they shove their cell phones farther down their ear drums. My mouth also comforts as best as it can; it hates to see tears, my mouth is very sensitive, it can sense when someone doesn’t feel quite right. My mouth seeks to kiss and make things better, to spread words of comfort and love. My mouth becomes like warm water washing away pain, with kisses and words. It tries to be as good as it can and as sweet as it can, but somewhere along the course of my life, it have picked up very course, rough language. And my mouth delights in repeating the course phrases as loudly and inappropriately as it can, at the most inopportune moments. It does not like to be silenced. My mouth has to be the strongest part of my body, because of how much it talks.
Want to hear about my brain. My brain is something of a novelty, I do not think I can describe as accurately as I should. My brain has regions unknown to me, I am afraid of my brain. It can do things, that not many people can, some people can sense my brain, and unconsciously distance themselves from it. My brain is a constant vehicle of motion. I cannot stop it from working; it works fast and hard, at all hours of the day. It contains, truly one of the greatest imaginations in the world. My mind can create such rich and inviting images and settings, it is hard to discern what is fantasy and what is reality. But that is enough of my brain; it can hear us.
There is much more of me, I suppose, but I grow tired and dull of describing me, everything riddled in untruths and weirdness, but that is the best I can do to describe myself. But myself is not the thing that truly matters. I am just a girl, nothing more, nothing less. I have tried and failed to describe myself, I have tried and failed to capture your imaginations, passions, and truths, I have tried and failed to offer something more than paper marked with undeterred nothingness. I have nothing more to offer than myself, but I understand that the truth of myself, isn’t exactly a first rate gift, but it is all I can give you. I have nothing to offer, no much to say, yet this urgency to say something, no matter how meaningless and meandering. Oh I am failing quite impressively, am I not? My ramblings have become quite extreme. These words are unsightly blights upon paper, but here they are; self-deprecating and useless. This is only me attempting to work though writers block. You may judge them as worthless, but tell me what concrete barrier and unmovable boundaries, have you attempted to break today? I don’t know your answer, but I want to feel proud of something, let’s call it my silver lining, shall we, and regard me as a hero, even just for a day? That I think should be just grand Illuminate my likeness upon walls and uniforms, and march me through the streets, I say! Dress me up and appease me for I am important!
Oh I forgot to mention, I tend to at the end of a particularly hard attempt at breaking writer’s block, to uh, exaggerate my own self-importance. But don’t mind me and my nonsensical words, I am just trying to restore the order and control that I usually exert over words, whom for some reason have chosen to rebel against me. I will attempt another night, but tomorrow night will be that night and not tonight, for I am going to bed. Goodnight and good day, this has been my epic battle against my writer’s block!



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