As I approach the keyboard, over and over again, I find my mind go quiet, this active mind of mine. These thoughts, coasting and climbing, soaring and diving, scatter like cockroaches at a sudden light.
And so they do right now. Writers’ block this must be called. Although I have thought I had had writers’ block before now I see that it is not true. This is it, and this is horrible beyond imagination.
I think of those I have known who were in a funk they called depression. Only those who had truly been laid down by depression knew the funk for a funk. So too this block that teaches me that all that came before was but a moment’s difficulty in cultivating the correct words to lay upon a page in expression of the complexities behind my eyes.
This is pain, these few words here. So long it seems since it was easy, so long since it was necessary, to write. For some long time words were a friend forgotten. I did not read them, at least not in any meaningful arrangement. I did not write them, outside a few short sentences, perhaps even two paragraphs.
As I struggle over even these few words, carrying the banal meaning that they might, I find I doubt I can find and ending for them, just as I imagine I have not really found a beginning.