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I Move On, But the Writing Stands Still
What will I do when the words stop?
There are days where the words refuse to come.
At such moments, I begin to worry. It starts as a seed of unease in my stomach, the pit embedding itself deeper and deeper, till I feel like there’s an anvil trying to pull me down to the ground.
“Oh, that’s just writer’s block,” you may say. “You’ll get over it.”
Or maybe you’re a non-believer in writer’s block and want to tell me just to work through it.
I would respond the same way to either end of the spectrum: “But the words have left me before.”
I remember those dark days when the hum of inspiration went silent. I don’t recall much from back then. Some days I stared at walls for minutes, hours, who really knew. I felt as if I were a withered shell of myself, any buds of hope dying on the branches before they even had a chance to become something with more permanence.
I couldn’t see a road ahead of me. The fog took over. If the words had been brought to life, they would have been doves flying away toward a horizon I felt I could never reach again on my own.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
And even then, in the back of this white noise of a mind, I worried the words would never…
