The Bumblebees of Writer's Block

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This three-sided sanctuary encases my endless flow of being. Its floor is of sea foam and its legs of cigarette ash. The hypotenuse's peach waves flow with the movement of an overhead fan. This waving sheet, hung from leg to leg, completes my temple and isolates the space within. My legs rest as pretzels, crisscrossed in the fashion of a third-grade student. This leaf of pearly white rests weightlessly on my crossed calves, hoping to be furnished with scratches and scribblings. My endless stream of consciousness transforms into geometrical crescents, crosses, and dotted strikes that dance about the paper as I aimlessly write. Absent of prompt or motive, these characters tickle the paper with a literal display of mindless rambles.

The disheveled fur of crimson and ivory fluff angles-out to form the silhouette of a chair that tickles my backbone as it rests. A four-sided pillow raises my limbs and buttocks onto a pedestal of midnight comfort. Stuffed sheets and fabrics line the floor, separating its existence from the outer wooden ground. The green-blue flooring's cotton-filled bumps mimic peaceful ocean waves. The air of this miniscule space evokes untainted emotion and recollection of thought. These awoken elements flutter about the slice of atmosphere like lost bees searching for their hive of proper portrayal.

A wooden staff of miniature stature tucks itself into the righted corner of this oddly-shaped room. Its scented covering peels, becoming ash-coated hair as the ignited cherry travels along its neck. Aromatic smoke bellows from the cherry and dances about the room in tendrils. The fluttering bees intercept the scented spirals of smoke and splatter on the paper head-first. Their viscous entrails paint an epic creation of thought's perfected portrayal.

Cries of melodic enlightenment blanket my ear canals with a sweetened taste. Guitar strings thump a steady beat as a smooth speech curls around every note. 'Don't worry about a thing 'cause every little thing is goin' to be alright.' A high-pitched howl chimes in to reiterate instrumental sounds. The once bumbling entrails curve and caress every element for which I had hoped to portray. No longer does the leaf of paper display random symbols, but a structured flow of character. The buzzing annoyance of writer's block evaporates. All senses are silenced in reverence to my own epiphany. This aimless expression of thought blooms into a creation of literature.





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