Writers Block

Laying in bed, thoughts swirling around my mind. At night i create these elaborate stories, build worlds, relationships, and even diagulge. It's perfect, completely formed and to me, it's good, the best things I've ever written, only i didn’t write it. I thought it and those thoughts, the world i built with the perfectly flawed people and the conversations they have, never make it passed my late night thoughts.

I fall to sleep, building that world, fingers aching to touch computer keys, to lay these words to paper, awaked in the darkness of the night. The morning light is blinding, awakening is the worst thing. When i wake, gone is the world i built, the people, their actions, their conversations, all are lost. The details i agonized over all night are gone from my memory like a whisper. What remains is the idea of the world and the people, sometimes. Other times i remember a single line of dialogue or a description, its imprinted in my mind. Multiple pages of lines from stories, that will never be written.

In that morning light, i grab my computer, open a word document, lay my fingers on the keys. Instead of the aching in my heart lessening and words flowing out of me onto the page, bring to life the world i built in my mind. Instead my hands get clammy, my fingers clunch, my heart races. The cursor blinks, blinks, blinks, on the empty page. The only sound is my labored breathing and the beating of my heart fills my ears as the cursor taunts me with its constant blinking.

The longer i stare at the cursor, it blinks, blinks, blinks against the blank page, the more i begin to suffocate. My bedroom begins to feel smaller and smaller with every second that i stare at that page. Walls begin to close in, coming closer and closer. So close that their going to crush me between them.

Cursor, blinks, blinks, blinks. Walls inches from me, so close to that everlasting darkness. A long pale, slender arm with freckles sprinkled along it and a faded broken tattoo that reads mom 1960-2002, with a pale hand with visible vein jumping out of the skin, long fingers with misshapen manicured nails, reaches out and slams the laptop shut. Instantaneously, the walls retreat.

The cursor no longer taunting me with its blinking and blank page. My fingers never fully relax. For house after my would move by themselves, as if they were typing on keys. As if they were writing down the words that are trapped in my mind. Over and over it happens, never is the cursor moving and filling the page, it always blinks, blinks, blinks.