This I Believe

The storm brews in my brain, but I am not brainstorming. The lights flash and flicker, but I have not had a light bulb go off in ages. Disjointed thoughts crisscross like warped planks of wood on a deserted railroad track. A rare, phantom train of thought, clear and meaningful, approaches my head’s desert, but is derailed as it attempts to traverse the ruined path. Another epiphany is lost; the terror grows with each defeat as I realize that I cannot write anymore.

I have nothing left to say, no more stories to tell, no lessons to teach. I never did. Writing was my way of expelling the stress from my body, my therapy. I got lucky a few times and wrote some quality essays. I fooled around with different types of rhyme schemes and managed to put together a few lines that resembled poems. After dipping into the realms of prose and poetry, I had the gall and audacity to make a run at being published, and some idiot actually gave me a chance.

Anything that I have written that is above elementary level and is equipped with complete sentences is in that book. All quality thoughts that have successfully escaped the dungeon of my mind and found safe haven on a sheet of paper are being published. I have nothing left to offer. Anyone who confuses my garbage for signs of talent is mistaken. I have done nothing but deceive those who read my works, trying to play a role I had no business acting out.

What if someone reads my work and wants to me to write something for another project? How will I make them understand that it was not real, that the talent lies elsewhere, with another who is truly gifted in the literary arts? I am not worthy of investments of time or money, nor effort or patience. My cause is lost. My potential is exhausted, as I never had any to begin with. I am neither a disappointment nor a success story, as I did not fail to meet any standard, nor did I exceed one. I am nothing.

Out of nothingness, fresh thoughts emerge from the sands and take the place of their warped, useless counterparts. A new train approaches, this one carrying riches in its holding cars. My confidence is restored, my gift rediscovered.

Writer’s block scares the Hell out of me. The fear comes every time I hold a pen in my hand, with nothing but an empty sheet of paper staring me in the face, challenging me to fill the void with a valid piece of work. The fear keeps me honest, makes me realize that the gift of writing is a privilege, not a right, and prevents me from taking said gift for granted. Sooner or later, I overcome the aforementioned insecurities and the lapses in creativity, rising from the darkness that is writer’s block to illuminate whatever surface bears my thoughts.