Suffering from Writer’s Block.

In an instant, an idea sparks inside my head, while I’m doing something else. It lingers, over and below, sideways, tempting me to catch it and to put it in words. I have words, but not many. I have the idea, too. And the medium to type it on. But something precludes me from doing so. That unknown factor -- for I know not what it might be -- stops me from taking the next step. I am distressed, damaged so much so that my determination is broken into pieces -- so many pieces that even if I start to pick them up, I will never be able to join them properly to get back what once these pieces were a unified part of. Everything is lost. Completely and in an instant, with the same spontaneity with which the idea initially appeared in my head from no-where. I close the editor window, flapping my eyelids and simultaneously inhaling and exhaling air. I pick myself up from infront of the monitor, and, having decided to catch a glimpse of the TV that is on in the room adjacent to mine and from which I can hear voices of varied tones and levels talking of things I cannot distinguish from where I am, I forget about the idea, about the words, about the temptation, that unknown thing. I forget everything that just passed as easily as one might forget what did not happen.

I am not one with a tender, sensitive, feeble heart, or with any such sort of determination, that once broken can never be reformed again. Gathering every bit of impetus possible in much the same way those Japanese anime characters absorb flying, substanceless health crystals of varying transparent colours that give them energy to fight back, I push to power-up my monitor, and then, finally, to execute my editor. I don’t have any idea this time, but the determination is there. And so are the words -- still not many -- and the editor. What is left is for me to think up something to drone on and to actually type words to express it, disregarding all bounds that restrict me. I sit, and I sit, and I sit, thinking and watching as the cursor positioned on the first column of the first row of the editor window blinks over time, reminding me that I haven’t started typing yet. My legs start to tremble; my teeth need something to bite on -- they always do when I am idle. I feel the same frustration building up inside me that I felt the last time I tried this. Only I had an idea, the trouble of finding which hightened the frustration this time round, then, but, it seems, that that makes no difference. At least not at the moment. I must leave. I must have a snack, a glass of water, or something, anything, that might kill this frustation. And, so, I leave, closing behind me the empty editor window and the same old montior just as I did before.