The Running Writer (Fear of the Block).

It was most likely the hundredth time the man had taken a seat, eager to bleed. The man didn’t wish for physical blood to pour from his body however, no, he simply had much “energy”, shall we say,  to let out. Yet it wouldn’t come out. No matter how hard he tried. It was beginning to become progressively worse as well, with each day that passed, he could tell his life source was draining from him. The voices in his head were becoming increasingly loud as well. They were anxious and angry. No one was listening to them. No one was sorting through them either however. They were free to roam chaotically throughout the man’s mind. Distorting every idea that he managed to grasp almost immediately.

The man was a Writer. This was no his profession. This was his passion. This was all that ever mattered to him. Although the man possessed many skills and talents, none did he cling to as closely as his writing. In the past he used to hoard his writings. Now he shared them. Rarely did he know what he was actually going to write about. It generally just came to him when he decided it was time to bleed. He never checked his work over. Rarely did he scour the internet for proving facts. It all simply came out. Now however, nothing was coming to him, and nothing was coming out. He sat there disheartened. Cradling a glass of whisky on the rocks. Wondering if this was it.

What if he’d never write again. Many great writers suddenly “lose their voice”. Not in the sense that they are no longer capable of speech. No this is a fate far worse to us. They are no longer capable of writing. Sometimes these “blocks” can only last for a short while. Sometimes they can last forever. It had almost been two weeks since he’d produced a single work. And although it didn’t seem like a long period of time to many. To him, it had seemed like an eternity.

Every morning he’d wake up and stare at the blank screen for hours. Nothing would come out. The ideas he wrote down were quickly deleted. After he realized how petty they truly were. The man would drink liters coffee and chain smoke reefer and tobacco until he could no longer bear the futility of his actions. Every day he would walk his dog down the same path. Generally it brought him serenity and clarity. Now it only brought dismay upon him. The dismay would further fuel the angry and anxious voices, whom he currently did not possess the courage to stand up to. The voices were generally his companions. They brought him thoughts and ideas according to the situation that he happened to find himself in. Now they were disappointed in him. He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t act. He simply wandered aimlessly. It was almost as if the man had died and now found his soul wandering limbo. He couldn’t write so he wasn’t alive. Yet he wasn’t ready to move on. So instead he simply wandered. Generally he’d wander into vices. Finding himself at the end of a bottle of cheap whisky. Or in complete darkness as smoke surrounded him in a comfortable paralysis.

There was only one thing for him to do ultimately. Force it. However, Writing is an art that prefers to take it’s time. This man however tended to be incredibly impatient. Preferring to run into obstacles head first rather than identify the problem at hand and work on a perfect solution over time. He stared into the screen and began to laugh. This again. It was beginning to grow late in the day. There was always the bottle of wine across the table from him. Truly there was no reason for him to work himself into a fit of rage for the eighth time today alone. This time was the last time he realized. If he couldn’t get something out. Then maybe this little project of his would have to be put on hold for a period of time. Who knew how long that would be however.. It had only just been birthed too.

Something had to happen. There was nothing to write about. Realistically there was everything to write about. That was the problem. The Chaos was growing strong once again. There was no sense of balance anymore in his life, simply extremes. Day after day and night after night. All he did was run. Along the endless road. At times stopping. Even believing that he would at last settle down and truly begin his life’s work. Only to end up taking off once again due to anxiety.What was stopping him from settling down and achieving his goals one by one? After all, he knew what needed to be done. He simply didn’t know where to begin. The weight of the world seemed to be on his shoulders. Even if these thoughts were simply fabricated in his mind. They were very real to him.

As the man acknowledged the fact that, once again nothing would be written, he went to his room lay on his bed. A sudden realization engulfed him.

He was his own worst enemy. He lay there and saw himself lying down upon the bed. Exhausted and anxious, for no good reason. And he hated it. After all he was the epitome of a self loathing writer who believed that some kind of foreign force had sapped him of his talent for “bleeding”. This figure that lay before him had been going through unbalanced “cycles” his entire life. Living positively one day, and negatively the next. To the point where he was beginning to have a hard time identifying with his own Being. Something that he knew he needed to be at balance with in order to live a fulfilling life. There was no curse on this man. No, he was his own curse. The only thing holding him back was himself.

The man began to laugh wholeheartedly. His family thought he was crazy. “I guess I forgot that I had an Ego once again, didn’t I?” He said aloud as he took a sip of wine. He began to breathe deeply and enveloped himself into a meditative trance. Time to sort through these thoughts I suppose. The voices eventually left. “Seems to me like the you just went through a rough patch didn’t you?” The man thinks to himself. Well I suppose he found himself his newest topic.

Don’t hold yourself back, Evolution is key to life.

Be at peace with your surroundings and always be one step ahead of your mind.

There is no such thing as mastery, move forward.

Love those around you and be happy.

Always remember your roots.



Categories Personal Thoughts, Short Story/Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this:
search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close