Type a Sentence, Backspace the sentence. Pause, and make an attempt to
assemble some coherence. No coherence. Writer’s block I have, words I
have not. According to Wikipedia (citation needed), writer’s block can
result from “physical illness, depression, the end of a relationship,
financial pressures, and a sense of failure.” But a few paragraph’s
down, Wikipedia tells me (and maybe you, too if you read the page) that
writer’s block might actually be from a switch in control to the limbic
system (flight or fight!) from the cerebral cortex (Van Gogh!).
As the calendar marches onward to the dead of winter, I lose my proverbial voice. The brain in my head gets muddled down and arduously slow, and productivity seems illusory. Oh but this Summer! The fluency was not slow enough and the words flowed so sweetly. Why, dear readers, when I’m still me, the same person I’ve been, can’t I maintain an ease with words? I’ll tell you, although it’s somewhat of a dreadful story.
Well the winter days are a burden and the heart feels faint; the bleakness of winter is hardly bearable each and every year.
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As the calendar marches onward to the dead of winter, I lose my proverbial voice. The brain in my head gets muddled down and arduously slow, and productivity seems illusory. Oh but this Summer! The fluency was not slow enough and the words flowed so sweetly. Why, dear readers, when I’m still me, the same person I’ve been, can’t I maintain an ease with words? I’ll tell you, although it’s somewhat of a dreadful story.
Well the winter days are a burden and the heart feels faint; the bleakness of winter is hardly bearable each and every year.
On one end Manic; Depression on the other
And the spectrum bounces endlessly so, each winter I wonder why I bother
with life, and each spring I remember. I suppose I do have a blessing
in knowing what to expect of this, but I can assure you, that does not
make it easy. A jail sentence completed 1/2 of the year is still an
awful six months of looking through the bars and wondering if you’ll
ever see daylight again.
Oh, I know I’m dramatic, but that’s all a part of the fun! What use is a
mood if it doesn’t make you feel? Tragedy! Drama! Romance! Is that not
life? I suppose I’ve been cursed with an exceptional capacity to feel
the pains and purities of my own existence in a world so large, and it
is cursed. Cursed on the months that I cannot articulate. Cursed on the
days I spend unable to see the sunlight, and cursed on the tears that I
cannot keep in. But beautiful are the moments of gratitude that swell in
my chest and heat up the blood in my veins, and beautiful are the face
of the people my eyes wander across, and beautiful are the words that
flow from my mind to my lips on the days I can speak.
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