Writer's Block

There's a reason they call it "writer's block". For me, it means every good idea that I have suddenly seems so terribly cliche that all I want to do is rip it to shreds and watch all my silly words burn amber to black to grey. I hate this feeling with everything that is in me. The inability to express what is going on around me creates this strange, frustrating vortex of emotion. People might think I'm angry, but I really just want to be able to write something good and I can't think how to do it.

Every sentence I begin seems ridiculous, even the one I am now finishing. I wish I had some easy answer to give. Why do I sound like a cynical old woman in my inner thoughts, criticizing the world and feeling that nothing is original. Yet, when the sparrows take flight and I am standing below watching their black-winged clusters flap against the gold-tinged azure sky of twilight, I remember what it is to wonder. I remember the little girl who used to stomp through soft mud on the riverbank, giggling because it sounded like an old man farting, and I thank God that He made me. 

Is this what is to grow up? Knowing that the childlike way I viewed the world was actually more accurate than any of the philosophizing I have done in the past two years? Maybe it is knowing that all I want out of life is to follow God wherever He leads, and that is enough. 

I read Romans out loud to myself to try and stay these fears and frustrations, trusting that the truth will not return void. I read over my old journals, searching for meaning. I listen to the way my friends converse, and I think, "I love you all so much, but is this all there is? Do I really have nobility of purpose? Am I striving for Him if all I do is watch movies in my spare time?" 

The fact is, I don't always like how I feel about life. Maybe when I do, maybe when I stop wishing I could burn all these paragraphs and watch the wind blow the ashes away, maybe then the writer's block will be gone. 

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