image courtesy of flickr.com
I've been staring at the computer screen for what seems like well over an hour. There hasn't even been any false starts. You know, typing a sentence or two and immediately reaching for the delete button. At least when that happens, I know the brain is working.
There has been none of that.
That was preceded by an hour of chewing on the end of a pen. Nothing to report, except that pen is now sitting at the bottom of a trash can. Did the pen fail me? Or did I fail the pen?
Even the bouncing of my trusty tennis ball yielded no results.
Tick, tick, tick. Time evaporates into the mist, never to be recaptured. Everything is in the past. Even the sentence I just typed. Past. Past again. Past even more. Time does not stop.
Stop.
Free writing has not helped. This is the second time I've tried this exercise in the past two days, hoping to jar something lose. It feels like there is a blockage in my brain, a giant cement slab damming the creative thoughts from bursting loose. Is that possible? Is that how the synapses of the brain work? I should have paid more attention in Science class. Would that have helped?
Tick, tick, tick.
There goes that clock again. Internally, it's ticking. Externally, it's on my watch. What does that even mean?
So many questions. What kind of free writing is that?
There I go again. Something has to click, something has to explode off of the page. I guess in this case, it needs to come from me. My heart. My life. My truths. Our hearts. Our lives. Our truths. There are hundreds of stories to tell and a million ways to tell them in. I'm in the midst of a two-week struggle and have not found any answers. Am I pressing too much? Perhaps. I need a new environment to write in. My apartment isn't cutting it anymore.
A bonanza of ideas and no substance. The story of May...
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