Writing, some days, seems like a task insurmountable.
We chase the muse of inspiration,
we attempt to think a thought so extraordinary that our words simply appear
with no conscious input at all.
Like magic, once activate,
we can channel into creation whole worlds of myth and legend, possessing the full powers of summoning to create universes at will.
From the tips of our pencils realities spontaneously spark and fade into and out of our worlds.
In this beauty, this writer's high
The act of writing seems as it were
an ancient arcane art
no scientific mode or method existing
of how it begins or whence it will leave only Time itself can show where it goes...
Those are the days the writer longs for,
that quench his hunger,
that give reason and purpose anew for first putting paper to pen.
However, when there is no magic...
When there is no muse whispering thoughts of enlightenment,
how impossible the act seems
to even begin.
Hours and days are spent looking,
staring and the blank page reflecting
a mind so blank and hungry for ideas.
On days like those, one singular question, one notion,
Both plagues the mind and darkens the soul...
'Where do I even begin?'
The question repeats incessantly.
Hours spent searching....
the mind seeking to gorge itself on every bit and byte of information it can hold
but still nothing.
Is the problem in the mind?
Or is this a symptom of a constipated soul?