When the Words Refuse to Come
There are days when the page feels heavier than it should. I sit with it, waiting for language to arrive, but all I hear is the hum of silence. They call it writer's block, but maybe it's not a block at all—maybe it's just me assuming it's there.
It feels ironic, writing about not being able to write. If the words are here, even as I complain about their absence, does that mean I'm really stuck? Or am I only circling the idea of being stuck, convincing myself I am?
Maybe the words are never truly gone. Maybe they just change shape—turn into pauses, distractions, or fragments that don't look like the story I expected. And maybe that's still writing, even if it feels unfinished.
So I sit in this strange space, half-blocked, half-speaking. Wondering if silence is emptiness, or if it's just another kind of language I haven't learned to translate yet.
It feels ironic, writing about not being able to write. If the words are here, even as I complain about their absence, does that mean I'm really stuck? Or am I only circling the idea of being stuck, convincing myself I am?
Maybe the words are never truly gone. Maybe they just change shape—turn into pauses, distractions, or fragments that don't look like the story I expected. And maybe that's still writing, even if it feels unfinished.
So I sit in this strange space, half-blocked, half-speaking. Wondering if silence is emptiness, or if it's just another kind of language I haven't learned to translate yet.
22-25
