When something is forced, it becomes resentful. The accurate definition of resentful is to feel or show displeasure at a person, act, or remark (etc.) from a sense of injury or insult. When something is forced or confined to follow little rules, or follow little rubrics, or play little games, or meet little deadlines, or meet certain standards, then that something is obedient (if intentions are well). They begin write something about… say… back roads and main roads, knowing full well you grabbed this topic right out of your “excretive area”, your literature develops without a since of creativity, imagination, originality, or even interest grabbing techniques.
I believe inspiration is a delicate piece of imagination that can’t be forced. Proof lies within the lack of inspiration shown in this essay. Countless days I’ve spent thinking and reviewing and researching just to find some inspiration, but my mind was as dry and coarse as virgin sand. My brain is currently on a stationary bicycle, vigorously pedaling to get to win a race. The best I could come up with was “back roads are better than those main roads” alluding on the fact that we should cease following the desperate “point A to B travel” people and stop to smell the roses, also reiterating the famous cliché of be yourself. But as my mind pondered on the subject I ripped it up and burned it and I used its blood to write the wonderful enlightening masterpiece I present you with today. Too many times have I forced inspiration (the thing that comes so lightly and sweet, like the succulent breeze near a barbeque joint) that now I’m able to write about my inability to regurgitate great works of art on the spot. On the occasion when I do force inspiration, I produce a marvelous maggot infested cow pie fly-fest that bores ever ounce of tear right on my keyboard.
In short, or shall I say, in a wide view under vague categories, you can say I have a major case of writer’s block. The fact that I’ve been thinking for days and all I could come up with deals with roads (seeing that I can’t conjure up an empty subject that is as dead and blunt as the unoriginal topic of just being yourself), I’m basically screwed out of my mind when it comes to writing without inspiration.
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