The words flowed through him as the wind through a spacious window. Unrelinquished, unrestrained words filling him with their passion, irrevocably beautiful, magnificent, sensational. Even as he wrote the words down he could not hope or dream to exemplify the way those words fluttering through his fingers onto the page gave way to some perfection he could not yet comprehend, no, that the world could not handle, words that rocked the world, that blew the door off meaning and sense. Words that changed what you found truthful, meaningful, a redefinition of what is just and sensible. A revolution amidst a blank parchment. A riot in the streets of literature. An eruption of rich genius. He was not a writer. He was a door to a world that understood the needs of poetry and desperation that brought one to a world drenched in prosperity. His fingers ceased their roles as facultory devices for writing. They were nimble dancers that pranced over the bleach rectangle, with every step, every glide, silently painting their dazzling stern art magnificently over the page, marking it in strokes, lines, periods, anecdotes, phrases, whatever he could discern violently scrambling with the puzzle slowly manifesting a solid picture in his mind. They were not words to be interpreted, nor to be enjoyed. They were the blood coursing inside his tireless body, the rage that ignorance of poetry fertilized, the hunger his heart craved for during the long days and nights he would suffer the pangs of withdraw, withdraw of sentiment, of rhythms of flowing words, agonizing truths that the world turned it back on yet could never dream of escaping. And as the words jumped from his virulent hand, busy capturing these sudden urges to record, a statement rang through his mind…
“Up yours, writers block.”