I want all the beautiful witty words trapped inside my head to escape and splatter onto a vacuous page as I think them—each word strategically placed creating perfect harmony between the paper, the words and the mind: the harmony swirls and spins creating its melody. It whirls around violently,
as swiftly as a freshly fallen red-orange leaf flutters in the Autumn breeze,
to create the perfect blend of content and character, sprinkled with a dash of humor. For without humor, words become nothing but a mound of letters: letters which lack emotion and feeling; they morph into dry and monotonous splotches of ink on paper. Phlegmatic words do not absorb meaning. I must choose my words carefully. The potency of the words bares the most meaning with the readers.
If I fail seducing my readers, my stories remain unread,
the appeal vanishes: it becomes incognito among the vast amounts of writers who somehow manage to coexist in the world. But it would be as if my words never existed.
Have you ever thought about what it would be like to not exist? Not in death. You’re alive. But not existing. Would it be like screaming in the middle of a crowd, but no one can hear you? No one can see you? Would you collapse to your knees in horror, dismissing the jagged rocks puncturing through you while the blood crawling out of your gash warms your chilled skin because, even then, you can feel the pain, but you do not exist?
But we cannot always have what we want.
Letters pretending to be words spew out on the page forming madness that not even I understand.
Content falls flat.
Then, the cursor becomes stagnant.
My unwritten words cannot seduce you.
I stare at a parched blank page: a page lusting for words drenched in meaning and character to fill the void. The creativity trapped within my brain will not sprinkle itself onto the paper; it cannot pry itself out of the nest it created.
My bloodshot eyes drift slowly upon the dollop of ripped out hair set neatly aside my coffee cup. I cannot remember if that was cup two or three. The pain trickles slowly down my spine—almost like maple syrup: it slowly weeps from top to bottom leaving a smudge of pain which refuses to leave—to my ass, which flattened from sitting on a hard bench. Oh, the wonderful signs of writer’s block!
Here I am.
Here you are.
I presume most people read to distract themselves from the pathetic emptiness of their meaningless, consumer-driven lives….*
Someone already said that.
“What now?” You ask.
Let me tell you this: once you’ve found a cure, please let me know.
I want to exist.
*From “10 Things I Hate About You.”