Block

I sat alone, waiting. The rain was drizzling outside. I loved the sound of the rain, but the clouds made the world so dead. So still. I was alone in the house, everyone had gone. Everything was so still, so quiet. 

No one was coming to visit me to day. No one wanted to play. I sat still; I sat quiet. The world was grey, cold and silent.

It was not good, but nor was it evil. It was not happy, but neither was it sad. Gloom does not fit this description. My characters, my friends, had all gone. They were living their passions and their desires, while I sat here by an empty fire.

What a fool am I? I, who sit here wondering what I should write; while life slips through my fingertips. What should I do? Who should I blame? For I am utterly alone. I would cry, but that itself is an emotion which has no place in this place of empty space.

Odorless, senseless, tasteless.  Round and round goes my stirring stick. Hot turns cold, and chocolate becomes mold.

So here I am with my hand on my chin wondering, just wondering, what predicament I’m in. No games to play; no fools to beat. Nothing, absolutely nothing, to unleash.

Here I am on this little wooden chair with a matching wooden table, doing nothing more than what I’m able. Perhaps, I’ll crave the wooden into something grand. But what would it be?

Nothing to think. Nothing to find. This is what happens in a writer’s block mind.