Writers' Block

The ‘manuscript’ sits quiet on the writing table. The screen, waiting for the tapping of the keys to begin is, I’m afraid, budding a nervous tick.

I sit in front of it all, here in my Writing Room, and stare out the window into the white of day, in a daze. I am contemplating a rather fine glass of vodka. I can’t focus. I can’t put myself inside the words.

The wind howls and whistles past my window carrying with it a chill, flurrying and swirling it about. It would be an understatement to say that my creativity is ‘frozen’. The company of a conscious mind seems to elude me these days.

I suppose I have been in other worlds. My thoughts have carried me into a youth that has long since passed-over into another parallel universe. Where, hopefully, it waits for me to catch-up to make amends.

The years squandered have disappeared into the category of ’hind-sight’. All the things I didn’t do. All the things I did that I should not have done. Not to mention all the lives that would have been different if I had made different choices. Too late now. Looking back, it was almost as if I wandered through those years in a complete state of unconsciousness.

Am I awake now?!

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