How much more would I feel, if I couldn’t see? How much could I see, if I couldn’t feel?
Frequently, the topic of writer’s block is addressed. I’ve never addressed writer’s block, because it’s something, I haven’t experienced. When I have nothing to write -I just don’t write. I am confident the urge will flow -as I am a writer. I need to spill upon my screen the words that fill my head.
However, recently I have struggled to find the time to write. It isn’t because the time is not there -but other situations seem to be blocking my need. It got me thinking about writer’s block -and the possible reasons we may experience this death. I say “death,” as it is a type of death when my mind is blocked from words, when my fingers fail to tap upon my keyboard.
With the death of my ex-husband, my daughter’s concussion -due to the bus accident, the death of a little girl I’ve followed for three years, the demand of publishing a book and the emotional toll of being responsible for another’s happiness, I am left feeling heavy.
When I am depressed, I pull into my own small world -absorbed by the emotions of others that rip further at my distress. Every sad story because the center of my focus -drawing me deeper into my internal dialogue.
This must be a type of writer’s block. Yet, I have the words -they haunt me in the night. I just can’t seem to find time to paint them across my monitor. What lovely words they are, of love and determination.
Is it possible that I am backwards, floating through a life of emptiness?
Am I refusing to give over my words, so they will remain hidden within?
Can I crawl out of my mind and see before me, what I feel?
Can I begin to feel, what I don’t want to see?
Death. Yes, death is upon me, when my words are hidden.