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The Inability To Write

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I stare at the page.

The cursor blinks . . . Once . . . Twice . . . Three times.

Is this normal for most people--that panicky feeling you get when your computer stares back at you with nothing to say?

The page literally sits there, a small, black line flashing every now and then, as if that is going to make my mind work faster . . . harder . . . better.

If anything, it is intimidating, simply mocking me and laughing out at my inability to write properly.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

There. Now the document is fresh again. Clean. These silly words spewing from my fingertips and seeping onto the screen of this computer make no sense. I am not satisfied with them, or their meaning.

Will I ever finish this?

Time goes by. I look at the tiny numbers at the top of the screen. They are exactly forty-seven minutes larger than they were the last time I glanced at them. But as I stare, they don’t seem to change.

Making small noises of frustration, I turn my head towards the ceiling and rub my eyes. They are heavy and tired from looking at one spot for so long.

The feeling is indescribable, and I mean that in the worst way possible. How is it that I can have so much to write, so much to do, and not be able to do it?

Can the task be accomplished?

The cup of tea sits beside my arm on the table. No amount of caffeine will awaken my thoughts. No forced insomnia will make creativity flower in this empty, white-walled room.

It is just a desk, a writer, and a cold cup of tea, facing the inevitable in the dim light of a glowing computer.

With one flick of my hand, the screen shuts off. I blink my eyes in the blackness that engulfs the room. Silently, I pick up my tea, stretch out my legs, and walk to the door.

This can wait one more night.




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