Yesterday, I saw a lone feather, fluttering against the sidewalk, and I felt a little jealous.
Some days, things feel heavier than others.
Lately, certain thoughts have been rotating in my mind, like a tireless hamster in a wheel.
Money, liars, mistakes, the future...
And while these ruminations usually are just like hailstones, brief in their impact before they bounce off me, lately, they have felt like a coat of armour.
One of these worries I can't seem to peel off is the sense that my words have lost their sparkle. Lately, my writings feel so lusterless compared to what seemed graceful and effortless months prior. Lines used to just pop up, like the proverbial lightbulb over the head, with paragraphs following closely behind, like a train of bright images and phrases. Now, when the lines emerge, they feel more like a butterfly, as though I'm chasing them frantically around with a net, begging them to pause for one moment, just long enough for me to fish out a pen.
It is not that the drive to write is gone. My fingers still feel fluent across the keys. I still find my senses feeding me a miscellany of ideas. I just feel as though they are not translating onto paper as smoothly as before. I have never seen my screen so filled with half-written posts, with concepts in point, rather than paragraph, form. I have never had my inner editor chastise me so about "Not another attempt to make your weekend a series of anecdotes" or "Why are you trying to be funny?"
And I am aware that the solution to my parodied version of writer's block is not force. Images do not emerge under duress. The butterfly will not land on my foot if I am flailing about frantically. It will touch down when I toss away the net and lie in the grass instead.