< Writer >
It’s as if the word itself mocks me. The paper stares blank and the pen stands ready, and yet the words just won’t come.
I know they’re inside- I can feel them bubbling, begging to be released, but the bottle is tightly corked.
The distractions abound- this one and that one- always calling me from the deep quiet of my mind, not allowing for the thoughts to form words and the words to make stories.
I believe it will happen- one day, I will be able to fully possess the meaning behind the word, but for now I wait- stagnant.
Page after page of unwritten words call to me.
I pause, ponder, begin to think- the conversations in my head so real.
It’s as if my long lost friends have come to play.
They are waiting too- impatiently, for their birth.
And yet still- the papers remain blank- the pen unused- another day.
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