Updated: Feb 24, 2020
Writing has become an exercise. Sometimes I do it because I have to, others because I can and want to.
Sometimes the words pour out of my heart running down my arms till thoughts are scribed on paper. I leave a piece of my soul scripted on each sheet. Maybe one day I can be recompiled into a collection- an anthology to be read as my eulogy.
There are the other times. Where the feelings burn and mould in my chest and ideas dart in my mind yet there seem to no longer be a bridge to my hands. I can sit for hours contemplating. Nothing.
My mind is as blank as the sheet. I force sentences together but like two repelling magnets, nothing comes together.
I think they call it a "writers block"
But I am not blocked, I am blank. I am empty, without words or ideas I am nothing.
Yesterday, it nearly happened once again, I began to forget and could not use a pen. I struggled to rhyme a word I just used. I mean it takes a lot of time to form a sentence but I do. Then the rhyme kicks in on time. A sublime chime, ball point pen rolling like a dime. . .
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