So here I sit. It's been months since I've been able to write anything and the only idea that has popped into my head is that of a cursor. A solitary vertical line blinks at me, flashing a monotonous beat on my screen, daring me to break the rhythm.
"Just do it, you know like Nike! Just type," i can hear some inner voice calling out to me.
I don't know what to write, nothing is coming to me. Though I hate to use the term, I find that saying "my well of inspiration has dried up" seems to be ironically appropriate. I can feel the stories in me, but I can't seem to find them, to transfer them from abstract thoughts to words on a page. I miss the days when I could sit down and write for hours on end, a frown of determination etched on my face. I could scribble for days until the story was just right, until I had every character and every plot was perfect. There was a time when I could write stories sweet as honey, poems bitter as wormwood brandy.
Now? Now I just stare at the blank page, the familiarity of the pen burning in my hand. The screen remains empty, but for that damned cursor... blinking out a droll existence, taunting me from the page.