I've sat down quite a few times in the attempt to write something. Anything really. Just something to show the improvement of life, or the increasing of knowledge. Just Anything. But in frustration I've been erasing everything that comes to mind.
Some call it writers block. I've been calling it life. Life full of stress and worries, deadlines and dental appointments; it's life. And in exasperation I wake up morning to morning listening to the gentle sounds of the wind inside my room, ticking like a clock letting me know how little time I have.
It's irritating. Isn't it? The days go and go, with no forgiving attitude towards our frail bodies. Our heads crash against the hard concrete of reality and the blood that rushes off is just another wasted second or two. Their is no pause button, no reset. The "Oops, I'll take that back" doesn't exist.
The words can die but the scars forever remind us of the thieves that have crossed our hearts and dotted our foreheads. And this has irritated me the most. The replaying of something I had no control over. The impulse to hammer myself over and over again with the pulsating idea that I could change destiny brings me back down to earth with a throbbing pain in my side.
This pain names me. This memory produces me. Or maybe I've been mistaken. I've let this pain name me. I've let this memory produce me. Because with fear as my blanket, I backed down from an easy victory and covered myself in a cowardly stench. Hoping the punishment would find me small and pass with no attempt on my existence.
But the ache that shakes my soul controls my existence. I move with no free motion. I am robot, finding sorrow in even the most lovely of smiles. The anguish that came on that July day tortures my days and feels me with terror through the nights.
So, I guess I have writer's block. But I've called it life since I was five.
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