I want to write but the words are trapped in my mind. I keep writing and deleting, writing and deleting, writing and deleting. Sometimes writing feels cathartic, other times I look back at what I’ve written and wonder why I wasted my time. So much time that could have been spent doing ~productive~ things.
My head aches with the amount it is holding. There are deadlines, conversations I had years ago, emotions, story ideas, plans, memories, what I’m having for dinner and where did I leave the phone charger, but when I sit down at a blank page, I can’t force any of it out.
I get up, make a coffee, go for a walk, have a shower, eat an apple. I do all the things that should make my reset button go off but the words are still stuck. I meditate, run, practice yoga, read in the hope that it will trigger one of the ideas to come to fruition but still there is nothing.
I use paper, I type, I dictate to my phone but it all sounds wrong. I can’t get the emotions across, I can’t articulate myself, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
I beat myself for writing (It’s a waste of time). I beat myself up for not writing (Why aren’t you trying harder?) It’s a cycle, a vicious circle that seems impossible to break.
I toy with the phrase ‘writer’s block,’ as though giving it a name makes it valid. It’s just a phase, I tell myself. I’ve come out of it before, I’ll reappear again.
I force out poems, creative pieces, reflections. There’s no life in them. I tap away at the delete button, embarrassed that I ever thought that they could pass for writing. I’ll take a break, I tell myself. But in my head, I’m worried I’ll never come back to it.
Yet somehow, I know I’ll return, like a moth to a flame. I am addicted to writing. I crave the feeling of blood pumping through my fingers as I type, the way I can relive my memories, the worlds that I create, the solitary act that never feels like loneliness.
I have writer’s block and I think that’s okay?