You know that terribly annoying feeling when you feel a sneeze coming on and you’re ready for it – all prepared for the coming facial explosion that will remedy the tickling in your schnoz, but it never comes? That is how I feel right now as I sit and wait for the words I can feel within me to burst forth upon the page. They’re tickling the corners of my mind, but they simply won’t come.

I’ve sat with pen in hand, blank page before me beckoning me to fill it, I’ve stared at a blinking cursor on a brightly lit screen for longer than I care to admit, pleading with my muse, who has quite obviously forsaken me, to breath even the smallest breath of inspiration my way.

Nothing.

I’m near to bursting with the need for release, and yet, I’m for lack of a better word at the moment, blocked.

I’ve come upon a seemingly impenetrable barrier, perhaps of my own design, and it seems the more I try to chip away at it, the stronger it becomes. I don’t recall building this wall, but it has all the hallmarks of my own handiwork. I’ve built similar walls brick by infuriating brick and used my self-doubt as mortar to seal myself behind them. This one seems fortified from the outside as well as in though and I’m thinking about simply hanging some art on the wall and calling it home.

I won’t of course, but this is my particular pity party for one so I’m allowed to be dramatic. The truth is, there is probably a door somewhere and I’m just not looking for it hard enough. I could attempt to climb my way out, in a way I suppose that is what I’m doing now, but it’s tiring work, climbing. I don’t seem to be making much progress either, I’m trying to chisel away stone to make footholds with a feather and the going is slow.

I’ve been questioning myself of late, wondering why I care how the words come out. Wondering why I bother to share them at all, if not for the sharing, would I care how they were arranged? They aren’t even mine – the words – I however, am theirs and must do their bidding. But then, if that is the case, why do they trouble me so sometimes? Bothersome, beautiful burdens words can often be. Fickle things that pick people to give them life upon pages and then torment them as they do.

Oh, but without them . . . I cannot imagine.

Well, back to it then, there’s a door around here somewhere.