Lately, being the past 2 months, my writing has been suffering from lack of inspiration and anything nothing to write about. Life still ticks away as if I were still able to write. It's a writersblock which masons stop and marvell at. It is like an ailment or illness which shows no sign of slowing down or curing itself anytime soon.
There is a black leather notebook which rests on my bed and torments the mind of a young writer. Every once and a while the pen and I resolve the differences between us and scribble some words in it. I start to wonder if inspiration is like the flame of a candle flickering, but once it has devoured the wick, the flame is no more. It seems to me that the tiny voice of the internal critic finds twice as many faults as their are words.
It is a sad story when a writer loses the elegant music of the squabbling of pen on paper. When the writer realizes the words he chooses are the same as the ones before, and before that. The meanings, the ideology, the criticism he offers to himself mean nothing more to the soul as the gray sky does to the earth below.
I began to wonder if there may exist a cure for this type of writersblock or if it is the punishment for an unconscious crime. It is hard to target the small clog in the clog in the circuts of the brain. Perhaps the coffee I drink every day has finally stopped the part of the brain that ignites when one gathers inspiration.
"Disillusion is a natural stage that follows the holding of an illusion."
- Susan Shaughnessy