Writer’s Block

Many artists say that creative block doesn’t exist. Just writer’s block can take on the role of impediment of the creative stream. As if those are any different. As if the imagination and creativity that feeds both the writer and the artist come from different fountains. As if it doesn’t flow through the fingers to be forever engraved on paper. One as chiseled letters, the other as splattered colors.

Either way, writer’s block is the monster that dangerously chases many creative people. It feeds on our fear and augments it. It makes me question if I ever was imaginative and creative and if I will ever be it again. Will I stop being so brutally tired and will my mind work like it used to or will it be one of those buildings forever marked as “under-construction” only to be left to the forgotten, to the rotten, removed of its beauty and personality? That’s my so great fear. Never to write, to paint, to draw, to create. To lose who I am. It feels like I am chasing after rain in a dried up desert with a furious captive hurricane in my stomach. All the word flow and metaphor grow seems to have been put to sleep whilst all I can hope for is that it was not in an animalesque farm.

My mind feels like it is a drained pond where the lily pads have no place to attach and are desperately fighting for their peaceful life. I am depleted of words and ideas. A vinyl stuck on ideal repeat. It looks like I am no writer at all…and it’s infuriating and frustrating and terrifying and my only concern is that of which I will no longer consider myself a writer. A reader. And all due to the fact that that drying monster has finally caught me. Ripping me apart, cancelling new ideas and filling me with old metaphors. Old everything. Leaving my tired and dead and lazy brain to constitute one old mouldy piece of contagious pie. Abandoning my mind with only a choice: to write about not writing. Even so it might not help me; this attempt to smash the wall.

Most writers say that a terrific way of unplugging that sadist beast is to write. Putting letter after letter. Word after word. Sentence after sentence. Others like to say that to break through those oppressing shackles you should listen to music. To go for a walk of new experiences. To wait. But would you look at that? Things I try to do and actually accomplish and still... I am blindly looking for inspiration. Better yet: to be inspired by inspiration itself, however she is an unholy lover. A fleeting muse that taunts me, provokes me, toys me. Coming near enough so her fingers brush my saddened face and staying far away so there isn’t a warm comfort. Trailing after her being is like hunting a typhoon located in the middle of a sandstorm in a busy New York street. With no way of grabbing her since she slips between my treacherous silky fingers tips.

So here I am. Doomed to write about the non-existence of my writing, given anything else hasn’t worked. Writing and typing an empty text about the emptiness felt when I don’t write. Stucked writing a crammed confused text about my self-eating brain seeking new elusive inspirations and being forced to find the olds.

I suppose putting a two thousand pound pressure on “writer personality” hasn't been helpful. That and losing my sixth year muse for an excruciatingly good. That and being easily distracted. But I don’t know what to do. I really have no idea on how to stop the feeling of a dark ages’ blackout in my mind. Sleeping seems to be the only concept my mind can grasp. A flashing mirage on a video clip. sleep. Sleep. SLEEP. No reading. No writing. No inspiration. No will. No intensity. To quote Pessoa: “Deus quer, o Homem sonha, a obra nasce”, and sure as the flaming sadness in me feels like God does not want me creating things no longer.

But…. without that what am I?