Outside The Box Of Writer’s Block


I need to write but I don’t know what about.

It’s not that I am without prompts. I can look to my left and see a thousand prompts in front of me. Same for my right. I can close my eyes and explore the one million I have ready and composed in my brain. It’s not that I am without prompts, it is that I am afraid of the one that brews inside me. I am terrified of the pain that the most important prompt of all will induce. It’s also all that will heal.

My hands hurt typing this. Is it my hands, though? Or my heart? I don’t know, but in truth, I really do. I know. I have known. And now I am running out of ways to avoid the knowing. I am running out of moments to ignore the pain because even in my subconscious, it screams in the background.

I am inconsolably numb. I am trying so desperately to grasp onto denial, but my heart can’t deny that it’s entity is shattered in front of me.

I am inconceivably haunted. I am trying so hard to pretend the ghost of who I really am has been sitting beside me for a decade, waiting to be let back in.

I am irrevocably misplaced. I am trying so hard to give trust the benefit of the doubt after the first 29 years of benefitting such was bullshit.

I am devastated beyond comprehension. And still, I am trying so fucking hard to understand the measurements of my capacity to love compared to the measurements of my capability to grieve.

I am lost. And still I am trying so fucking hard to make the past the only place worth finding. A place I know I can’t ever go back to.

I am seemingly free inside the prison of the present, and I don’t know where to put my pain. I don’t know how to say goodbye to it.

I need to keep writing.