Wild flowers and handwritten note taped on brick wall.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. My brain is just consumed by the too much thinking I make as to find a way to balance my life right now. It’s still a little bit chaotic, for I still haven’t found my pace amidst life happenings.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. But a type of fear has started to consume my heart. It’s still a tiny spark, this fear — but in the long run, it might as well set ablaze whole forests in my heart, in my mind.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. No, I don’t fear criticism, because I understand that to each their own. I don’t even fear of sounding stupid anymore, because ridiculousness never killed anyone. The fear is dead in me, simply because I know that I’ve missed so many steps… life is pointing me to my mistakes, and I’m rectifying them. Doors aren’t closed because they’ve decided to spitefully close them in my face… they’re closed because I haven’t yet found the keys. Thus, I am not suffering from writer’s block.

But this fear, it concerns much more the fright of losing her, my muse… because I am not penning down lines of poems and paragraphs of stories as I used to do everyday. Yes, that’s what I fear the most right now — that she will leave me, and that I will be left to dry and wither, and finally, die a slow death inside.

I am like that passionate lover who does everything they can to prove their degree of affection and adoration to the beloved of their heart. Thus, to sit down everyday as to write is an offering to my muse, this gift of creativity.

I don’t want to use my muse. I want to possess her — well, metaphorically speaking of course.

Seeing that I am not a native English speaker, I write very slowly, turtleishly, frequently stopping in the middle of a word or a sentence to think about the right English term that I should use, or even linger on the arrangement of my words. And sitting with my muse, which to me is the only audience pleased by my amateurish writing, while thinking and focusing, is a must for me. But it takes time to make adjustments, to find the right or perfect balance between my chores, my duties, leisure-time, relaxation, writing a new book, blogging, imagining; to settle in a new favourable routine that’s promising for me.

And that’s where my fear stems from — the fear that in between, my muse will become dormant again, burying herself under piles of inactive feelings and random access memories agents, die out of hunger, or even, that she will leave me for another more enthusiastic and thrilling mind; that my creative influence, inspiration, will sink furtherly at the bottom pit of my mind, that same shallow area where I went to deter, awaken, activate it while practicing vigorously for all of these years so as to beat the odds… which by the way is my favorite game to play.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. It’s just that my brain is drowning in a tumultuous sea of thoughts, amongst which thoughts that my muse might abandon me… thus the cause of my present fear.

No. I am not suffering from creative’s block, because today, while being Friday, I have been able to write this blog post which I’ll be revising tomorrow, to finally publish it on Sunday. And while we’re at it, I’ve also got the idea about the photo I’ll be taking to ship with this blog post, which is a little note that I’ll tape on my back yard brick wall, accompanied with some wild plants. Thus, this issue has been settled. No. I am not suffering from writer’s block.

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