Writer’s Block

I was fearful of my own obsolescence.

I couldn’t hack it, I wouldn’t make it. I couldn’t bear the conviction of my own limitations.

Feeling depressed, dispossessed and bereaved of my own immortality.

“I renounce my subjugation and defy these boundaries and edicts”!

“But methinks the lady doth protest too much”, said the voice in my head.

Said the voice of the accuser, that great pretender and author of confusion.

I was perplexed. I coughed, and I choked on the dust and haze of my perceptions, insomuch as I could recall.

For I presupposed that I was clothed in the remnants of throw-away lines and verbs that hear but do not feel, nor speak.

Processing the substance of my own pontifications, where this and that does not compute, cutting and pasting all types of prose and paraphrase; only to expel all logic and meaning, putting the illusion of rhyme and reason to the sword.

I chose to dispose of my thoughts putting pen to pad, spilling the black ink of my emotions, pouring out the wrath of dark, quixotic and ungodly passions.

And they gave birth to new feelings, fonts, margins and paradigms from the seed of my iniquity and rebellion.

So, there I was, holding fast to that everlasting spark of my divinity; that was infused in the words on the page.

I was confounded by Babel, so I built my own tower, and wrote my own story.

And I was one verse away from Heaven.

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