Quite short. Something I wrote when I couldn't write.
I struggle to find the right words. In a foggy, mystical realm in which my vocabulary dwells, I crawl and reach and grope for words I see and hear daily. At this point of confusion and entropy, cliches often rear their ugly heads. No stone in my head is left unturned. And yet, by the hour of its completion my work disappoints me; it walks towards me in a stoic fashion, tail between its legs, showing me dreadfully empty hands. Where do the words hide? Why can I not hold them close and securely so as to never lose them again? On the verge of screaming out into the painfully empty air, I pause for long moments at a time, rack my mind for sayings, phrases, proverbs, even song lyrics. How do others know exactly which combinations to mash together? It is no science, yet no construct sprung purely from emotion. I suppose it all depends on the subject matter. In this case, what is mine presently? Again, is the answer "nonexistent"? No, one could say I write about my inability to write – a paradox I find fascinating. For during my hasty, feverish search for the perfect ideas, have I not proved that those which are imperfect can be effective? Here I’ve already written this much, still convinced of its less-than-ideal value. To make a long story short, I’ve got writers’ cramp.
