I anticipated that over Christmas break my imagination would flourish and my creativity bubble would burst onto my canvas, creating stories and scripts that would be as satisfying as a hot cup of tea. I am shocked, but mostly disappointed that this is the first thing I have managed to transcribe from my muddled mind.
I struggled with eloquently pushing out words when I was stressed from the labors of schoolwork and lack of sleep. Everything was dark and dreary and I didn’t want to show it to anyone, because I found it too dark and dreary to even share. I wanted to write mind-boggling, goose-bumping, nose-prickling sonnets and lines for readers to drown in. Yet here I am, sitting in the back of an old coffee-house, blank as snow, just a useless cliché. My mug of chai is empty, my nose is running, but my brain is still. Not a clever ounce of blood in my veins.
Of course, I could push myself and write some forced prose, or journal about my cat or Kansas City, however half-assed writing is never worth reading. I wouldn’t publish anything that would be more of a burden than a pleasure to leisurely read. Finding writing prompts online make me feel as if I’m doing homework. Finding inspiration from my current chair seems fake. Finding new words and piecing them together like a puzzle seems like a game I’m not quite ready to play.
My skull must have cracked and left my head dry of all of the adjectives I found so inviting and quaint stories so simple, yet hopeful. If only I could press a button and let the witty sludge drip back into my body. If only I was chirping with excitement and my hat was full of symbolism and my fingers could find the secret code on my keyboard so that the letters would align and the words would build a skyscraper of conundrum and peace all at once and my brain, as well as yours, would be so satisfied.