writer's block
you ever set for hours at a blank sheet of paper, with pen in hand and with the thoughts even more bare?
You know you have something to say, and you also know that white sheet that represents billions of possibilities, stories, reflections, roads ...
Yet the pen continues to remain just above the piece of paper, without even touch it.
That should make you feel free, white, enchanted by the multitude of different ways you could make it dirty. Instead just feel a strong sense of oppression. Inadequacy. Empty.
This, for me, writer's block, but I do not think that should necessarily be affected have never written anything throughout their lives. I think it's more or less than a sensation. The white paper is the life, the pen is its own decisions. If I try to imagine my future I see it as a sheet full of writing. Maybe it will be a story or a poem, or maybe even a drawing. I do not know. I do not see my future very clear, only a halo of blurred ink.
The future is I who decide, but every time I approached the pen to paper here is that this emptiness comes over me. Then return everything to and after leaving that card on the table, and white.
few years ago, I remember, I could not wait to live my future. I did not know what I would be, but I knew I wanted to write. So I wrote for hours and hours and still other times, I stole the time I needed to create my own stories, happy at the thought of what I wrote in my future. Now that future I imagined as a child I'm going through. Some things are similar to those that dream, others completely different. Study at university to become a journalist, I am putting everything to give my best, to achieve that dream, so much that I forgot how to spell.
course for the university are constantly forced to write essays, articles, essays ... but I have not stolen more time to my duties in a park to sit down with pen in hand and knees in a notebook full of dreams. Just when I'm making my biggest dream as a child I can not remember the WHY 'I was dreaming.
and then continue to fix this white paper, trying to remember.
This is the mo writer's block. The
not be able to understand what I really want, what it represents in that small piece of paper that is my life. And 'as if I was in a maze with walls of blinding white. I can not distinguish the right path to follow and then, panicked, I remain motionless, leaving little time to make that white is more oppressive until you join me.
But now I'm tired of all these white walls, I want to paint on thousands of different stories so as not to lose more than the road.
And so I sat down, and I began to write.
