Mini-Story: Writer's Block

I gaze morosely out of the squares of my window, seeing my reflection mirrored, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in my hand. Water streams down over the panes of the glass as the rain assaults my house, coming down in buckets, accompanied by loud thunder and bright streaks of lightning.

I take a sip of my beverage, glancing down at the desk in front of me. Before me lies an empty notebook, waiting to be filled with thoughts. There are scrunched up papers all around me on the floor, tossed carelessly aside because of the lack of material contained on their pages. I'm horrified at my several attempts to write, all unsuccessful. My potential has faded, leaving me alone with my writer's block. I've only been digitally editing what I've already written. Where are the new ideas? Why haven't they come to me yet? All I need is one! Is that so much to ask? Wake up, brain, and give me an idea. Get it together, mind, and show me how to do this. Stop hurting, heart, and love what you used to: the simple art of writing, creating something worthwhile. Move in sync, hand, and agree with the body for once! I can do this. I think. I have to try again. I hope I can.

My typewriter is nearby, dust gathering on the letters. Has it really been that long since I wrote something? I feel so useless right now. My last piece; was it brilliant? Did it have untold value? Or was it empty and meaningless? Do I believe in what I wrote before? Right now, I'm not too sure of the answer to that question. I used to always strive to write beautiful pieces of art, each individual and unique, but lately my themes have been repetitive, and not quite so special.

Where's the fire that used to burn in my soul? My reason for inspiration is nowhere near me anymore. I'm lost without that to guide me. Has creativity fled forever from my hand? Will the words ever flow again? Will I always be tortured by the lack of true talent where there once was a wonderful, courageous mind?

I watch the rain splash on my window, lost in my musings as I put on some sweet, soft music. The melody surrounds me, leaving me relaxed, yet alert, capable of feeling beyond the normal. I've entered the state of simply being.

I'm here, yet not here. Distantly aware of my actions, I place my cup of hot chocolate on the coaster on my desk. My spirit is hovering over my body, attempting to travel to another place and time. Hopefully I can go back to that place when writing was easier, when every word written and every sentence constructed wasn't a struggle. I miss that place. I want to go back there, so badly. How do I transport myself there?

My eyes are closed, shut tightly from the harsh reality that is threatening to consume me, telling me I'm no longer a writer. However, my mind is open to new ideas. None seem to be forthcoming, so I sit silently and wait to see what I will discover. I'm fighting that crippling, destructive thought with all that I have. I've always loved writing. I want to be a writer always. I can't give up! It's only the voice of doubt that's haunting me, telling me it'll never be, that I'll always be nothing. I am something, I declare, with my words and thoughts, that message branded into my soul.

Inside me, a battle rages, my brain arguing with my heart, neither one capable of defeating the other, while my hand remains clutching my ink pen tightly, hovering above my latest empty page, crinkles on the side of the page where I've ripped out the other pages, the ones where I couldn't quite form a complete thought.

How different is this? At least before, there were ideas. They weren't perfectly structured, and intensely amazing, but they existed. Now, there's just a deafening silence in my mind, as the rain pours outside, my ears catching the sharp sound of the drops pelting hard against my window.

What can I possibly do to end this terrible cycle? Should I write down all these thoughts I've been having? Would they change my outlook on life in general? Would they give me hope of achieving great things during this life? I decide to try. I place the ink pen tip against the first line at the top of the page, and begin to write.