I couldn’t write. Nothing came to mind. Ideas constantly being written, and then deleting them again. It felt like an impossibly large brick wall that just wouldn’t fall. So, with no more options left, I decided to write about that impossibly large brick wall. 

When I can’t write, it feels like I’ve lost a part of me. Writing was, and will always be a constant in my life. The ability to get my ideas across a level surface, with just my words, and no other factors. Stories created from my own ideas, and no one else’s. To give people a certain feeling when reading my writing. Writing just because I can. It made me feel powerful and gave me confidence. Without it, I am not me. 

When I can’t write, it gives me a painful reminder of how I’m changing constantly. I’m not a person who likes changes. I’d prefer it if tomorrow would stay the same as today. There’s a fear, of how uncertain the future is, that makes me want to hide in yesterday. Somewhere along the lines, the time I had allocated for writing, shrunk. As it shrunk, my ability to write also shrunk. Maybe somewhere along those very lines, I had found other interests, other priorities that pushed me further away from writing. Either way, it’s blatantly evident to me how much I run off of writing. Coming back to twist my words into something enjoyable to read, is painful, and tough. 

When I can’t write, an image appears. One where a once abundant, and overflowing river of ideas, is now dry, and barren. When I try to write, it’s like squeezing out the little drops left behind. Tiny little drops, that don’t make much sense to me, or aren’t really important to me, or sometimes even both. Nothing I ever write seems to pass my standard for satisfaction. 

I’m blindly trying to find my way in a dark, cloudy, murky, cave, seemingly with no exit. It’s a vicious cycle that I can’t seem to escape. I find a small inkling of an idea, and just as quickly abandon it. Then, repeat. 

When I can’t write, more than losing a part of me, it feels like I’ve lost the ability completely. That’s when the fear really settles in. All of a sudden, I can’t write like before. I’m not improving, and I’m certainly not writing anymore. That big brick wall grows taller, and I’m allowing it to grow right before my eyes. I’m throwing stones, and pebbles at the wall, but they’re too small. Halfhearted efforts, before I give up completely. Holding on, to a thin, and feeble string. I’m at the edge. It’s not long now before I let go altogether. 

 With a last wish, I’m hoping what I’ve written today will turn into an impossibly large boulder, that will end the impossible large brick wall once and for all. Maybe writing about the wall will give me enough strength and courage to climb and eventually overcome it. Little by little, I hope to regain back this skill. After seeing the other side of writing, which lives in struggle, I’ve concluded writer’s block is a disease. The only way to combat it would be to keep reading, keep thinking, and keep writing.