I have been trying to write. I swear I have tried most possible means. I have stayed up in the silence of the night, waiting for a muse to drift by into sleepy eyes. I have strayed into lonelier dirtpaths, recluse benches, shadowy trees, pitch dark corners, my bed, the floor, upon a table, under the table, over the table, all over the place and at no place with a peculiarity.
I have read inspiring words, pretty verses, haunting tales, beautiful and shattering stories. They only make the longing more raw and the wounds of wordlessness pain harshly. Listening to songs just makes my heart ache, because I fear I might have to just satisfy myself with reading and listening to words and notes that emerge from anywhere but within me.
My tiny perception is constantly overwhelmed with the amount of detail to absorb. And when I can’t write, it feels as though I will simply be grappling ideas that will never reach expression.
It seems as if I were a sponge drenched deep, and soaked in a beautiful misery of knowing exactly what I did, but being unable to squeeze even a drop out of what makes my subsistence so heavy and laden.
I feel again, as if I was the ocean. Only this time I cannot perceive my own depth and nature. My vastness leaves me suspended in a motionless stupor that consists of several trillions of little disturbances that somehow nullify each other.
I constantly feel the need to escape the headspace that only serves to confine me and the riddling ocean of the substance of my thought. And again, as I find myself unable to exist anywhere else but in my head, the gripping fear of being trapped envelopes close and tight.
What am I leading myself into? Maybe little things I do and little thing I do not do add up to a massive change that I won’t see coming till it’s inescapable? Maybe my insignificant decisions will cause a turn of tides that move my steer elsewhere; towards lands and winds I would never recognize as decree of destiny or the result of my own wishes.
Fear scrawls these belittling thoughts upon my head, where paintings of hope and love should have existed. The screech of each dread is loud enough to make the sounds and songs of my own heart bleak and distant. Fear exists in the crevices from where doubt and distrust crawl in the dark. In ignorance, in weakness they roam free upon the guileless surfaces of optimism. Like pests they defile and infest. Like silverfish and moths upon the precious pages of a book, like dust upon memories, like broken glass still unswept, they reside in me- this clustermess of thoughts being testimony.

Image result for writer's block painting

4 thoughts on “A mess of thoughts, inked through a writer’s block

    1. Maybe that’s why I simply posted whatever I wrote… It releases the worry of not being able to satisfy the itch to write.
      Maybe that’s why I really didn’t read again and laid it out for people to.


      1. In my experience, that’s the best way to write. It’s raw and unfiltered – hence most authentic and meaningful. What comes from the heart goes to the heart of the reader.

        Liked by 1 person

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