To be coming out with messy, chaotic plots with spates of vocabulary at my command, yet when my pen touches the paper, it leaves nothing but the black spreading ink dots, forever expanding outwards in circles. The ink seeps through the fibres of rough, brown paper, its coarse texture reminding me of sands at the beach, but cooler. The dot becomes a spot, its moist slowly forcing its way through the interwoven threads of white. Angrily, strokes cross and recross over the written words. Frustration is spilled onto the paper with the torn bits of scrap, unformulated ideas ripped into shreds.
A new, fresh slate is presented again. Hesitantly my pen starts to scribble on, the words starting to flow from the tip of my imaginings. Drawn in ink, with minute details. But it all seemed wrong, the wrong colour, wrong shade, wrong setting. Crumpled up, the white sheet now spattered in inklets and alphabets is discarded.
The clock irritates me, the ticking is a poison that seeps into my veins and gnaws my innards. What is keeping me from thinking straight? From doing what seemed to be so easy before? I was asking more and more unanswered questions, never to be known. The wall is erected right there, the bricks so thick and heavy it weighs me down. I push and pull, but the barrier stays, between me and my solitude, between me and my peace.w