Have I misconstrued what it is to be a writer? Because my chest is crushed with an incompetent burden when I can’t find anything to write about. My mind has taken the form of an earth ravaged by drought; skeletal fingers of bone-thin trees stretched toward a dreary sky for a warm wind that will bring blossoms of inspiration.
What is a writer who cannot write? Who is inept at weaving words with poetic or prosed grace, like a magician pulling roses out of thin air?
I can’t rest without writing. But neither can I force what isn’t there. My thoughts have receded to an ungiving whisper. Petulant and tight-lipped, as if it has turned its back on me in a moment of rebellion. But I know this is only an ephemeral resistance. Soon it’ll tire of its seclusion and seek me once again for meaningful discourse, opening the iron gates for my imagination to run wild and free.