I’m a writer.
Isn’t everyone though?
I mean essentially…
Essentially, yes, we are all writers.
And I guess I’m a writer too.
And yet, I’m not.
I am a writer who cannot write.
WRITERS BLOCK.
Maybe I used to be a writer.
I used to write.
I still love to write.
But I don’t write.
Because I have,
NO I AM
Writers block.
Can I even still be a writer if I haven’t written anything worth reading for the past few years?
But maybe I can write again.
Maybe I can write about…
Flowers.
Flowers blooming in a field in spring.
Reds and greens and yellows and oranges and violets and pinks and…
But also…
Not flowers…
Maybe seeds!
Seeds, planted in soil, plus love, plus water, plus sunlight...
Growth, change, maturation,
SEEDS BECOMING FLOWERS
But maybe not seeds…
Oh! Maybe I can write about...
Rain.
Rain that makes lovers want to stay in bed all day.
Rain that makes me want to curl up next to a fire and read a good book.
Rain that makes some people want to dance in the showers of itself.
And children who so innocently jump in puddles
But maybe not rain…
Hm.. Maybe I can write about...
Dreams.
Dreams I have in my sleep.
Dreams I have while awake.
My aspirations.
All the things that scare the absolute SHIT out of me
I mean.. maybe I can write about those things...
But..
But maybe I can’t.
Maybe I can write about…
Music.
How it grabs me deep in my soul and forces me to think.
How there is always a song that is just right for my mood.
How music saves lives.
How it expresses emotion.
How as a nervous habit I sing when I walk alone in the street.
But too many people write about music.
So maybe not music either.
BLOCK.
WRITERS BLOCK.
I HATE
HATE
HATE
WRITERS BLOCK.
Maybe I can write about...
Society.
I’ll just stop right there.
I know nothing of worth about bettering people.
No.
I can’t write about that.
So maybe I’ll write about...
Love.
Maybe I know enough about nothing to write about love.
Let's face it... love is mindless.
It requires no thought process
No knowledge.
Maybe I can feed into the masses and say that love is magical.
Or I can say that love is a lie.
I can say how it can make you vulnerable
And it can make you do STUPID THINGS
I mean realllllly stupid things.
Things that will make you question your own sanity
Because let's face it, love is a tragedy in a body with a mature mind and a romantic heart.
Maybe I can write about how sometimes it makes you wanna smash mirrors and break walls.
I’ll write about how love is worse than nicotine.
More addictive. Equally deadly.
I’ll write about how certain names will never stop tasting like acid on my tongue.
Or I can write about how you cannot save people, you can only love them.
And sometimes that is not enough.
Or maybe I can write about how love in nothing more than an addiction.
For example, a man that quit smoking 11 years ago spent 15 seconds in an elevator with a man smoking a cigarette. He gave in.
And that I’m trying to say is that I think I love you again.
But I don’t know enough about love to write about that either.
So I won’t write.
Not about love.
Not about society.
Not about music.
Not about dreams, or rain, or seeds or even flowers.
Because I have writers block.
