WRITERS BLOCK

WRITERS BLOCK


The two glasses of wine at night, for relaxation and sleep, ran out a week ago, and now? My writing. (I really need to check the mail.)

The vacuous screen stares back, daring me to fill in the blanks; while somewhere, far in the back of my mind, I know it has sucked me dry.

I stare, waiting for the inspiration I know will come; yet knowing, that now, there's a door to walk through, a world of fresh air to examine.

Still, I stare. The living whiteness of the screen taunting me. And, as I watch --- it takes on a life of its own and seems to breathe.

Intrigueing me, projecting its intent with a rise and fall of life and breath. The whiteness of it, pulsing and billowing. Out, then in, then withdrawing, pulling me further into its grasp.

I cannot move, so intent am I, on observing the expansion and contraction of my addiction.

I am horrified at the sight; and yet, fascinated; So, still, I remain attached to my chair --- permanently installed, awaiting the next divine inspiration.