Today I woke up and as I grabbed my pad to do some early morning writing I suddenly realize that I had absolutely nothing to write about. I think I have writer’s block.
Nothing is worse for a person like me than to have an acute case of writer’s block. You see it’s like my head is a mad jumble of ideas, of threads of thoughts that have no rhyme or reason. Usually, I would grab a thread from that mad jumble and I would follow it and the words will come and I’ll find myself writing and writing until it all culminates into something that I like. It’s like riffing in a jazz set. It’s just you and your instrument and laying out your soul to the world.
Today I simply have nothing to say. My brain feels like a foggy, lumpy mass and no matter how much I squeeze and prod and pull, I can’t find anything to say.
Maybe I should write about writing? Of why I write? The act of writing pulls all the conflicting, tense emotions in my head and by the act of putting it in black and white, some of the tension is released and I’m free to go on with my life. Writing is a release from the prison of my mind. I don’t want to do that though. I feel that I’ll lose my words and I might suddenly stop midsentence. I don’t think I know enough about writing itself to make anything worthwhile.
Writing about writer’s block might be something I could explore. I don’t know though. I don’t think anybody wants to hear about somebody writing about writer’s block. It’ll be some kind of inside joke that would be distinctly unfunny.
So day not going well, stuck with a paralysis I cannot fathom, I go back to sleep.