Writer’s Block

I am betrayed, abandoned by the Muse who does not answer my call. Dealt a stunning blow once again.

Rock, paper, scissors. In childhood, scissors and rock were mighty. Now paper carries the greatest weight; like an anchor holding me in place. I cannot float- move- journey- explore-imagine.

The blank page stares at me; an unyielding, audacious tease. I woo it— it remains pathetically aloof. I romance it— it rejects all overtures. I seek shelter in its arms— it laughs back, haughtily. I cling to it as if it were a life vest on a raging sea— it pops out from under me, bobbing past, just beyond my reach.

Paper blinds me.

Granite chips flake and fall as I chisel a destructive narrative where once I’d meant to sculpt. There is no semblance of form or pattern. I chip. I crack the rock. It tumbles to pieces. I write. I write. I flail against time, suffocating with words filling my nostrils, lungs, heart— until it bursts, life’s blood draining from my marrow.

I stretch too far. I rip apart: a fait accompli.

I struggle frantically to find my way back to paradise. Gluing blade to blade of grass on rocky soil. Planting flowers without roots. I fall and tumble back to shore. Stir tidal pools caked with sodium and petrol—lifeless dead pools- where once I’d seen life – star fish and sea anemones.

I am to die, a breathless fetus. I am here, waiting to be born. Sill yearning, I am birthed on desert ground. Ground that is parched, cracked, unyielding, unforgiving.

I am a charcoal ember cooled to icy cold brittleness. Broken and sifted by winds. Carried against rocks and sand until blown away into oblivion. Another minute speck of dust upon dust.

I cannot write.


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