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I’m experiencing writer’s block. There’s a story in my head that is just dying to be on paper. There is angst, emotion, imagery, floating around, bouncing around my skull like my head has become the most popular pinball machine in a cheap arcade. I want to feel the words, draining from my fingers, relieving me of all the painful memories, therapeutic.
Yet, every time fingers reach the keys, ready to pour my soul into a simple word processor, my brain goes blank. I still feel the story, but it’s retreated into a small, dark corner of my mind. I can only coax it for so long before frustration overtakes me, and I’m rummaging through my memories, for anything of substance. All the memories I want on paper are there, but they repel from each other, refusing to become a coherent story, refusing to give me the relief I so desire.