Inertia oozes through my veins like poison. It’s thick, and slow, and deadly as it wraps around my flailing heart with a python grip and wills it to beat slower and slower, pushes out black corn syrup in place of life, freezes the limbs and clouds the mind. I want to write. Am I using my lack of experience as an excuse? What does a vomit of desperate thoughts help when it comes to writing a story? I can’t stand being bad at things; maybe that’s what’s stopping me. Or maybe it’s conscious inertia. In that case, the ooze would’ve sprung from the brain. What to write, what to write? Well, what do I want to say? I want a warning, a wake-up call. I want to write about war and poverty and love and famine, but how can I? I am an upper middle class white girl without a trouble in the world. How could I possibly express death? See what I’m saying about excuses? They’re crushing…

I keep catching myself fantasizing about life, about my life meaning more than just the classes I take in high school. I want to model and write and publish and travel and learn and love what I learn. This can’t be it- I can’t let this be all. I’m looking to gain experience, to see into people. What to write, what to write…is this what they call a block? Silly way to say it, as if I’ve been corked shut, as if I was flowing before.