There are some days where every sort of feeling seem to course all around you. Where every single thing seem to exist a little too much in a singular moment and every reaction is telling you to do something – to write.
And so you take out your trusty notebook or open up an empty word document or whatever application it is that you use and all you are doing is just sitting there, absorbing the space around you, being in this magical sort of moment, feeling like there is so much you could write about, so much potential. And you’re sitting there, just sitting there, trying to translate whatever it is you are feeling about whatever it is that’s filling your head.
Only there’s actually nothing in there. At least nothing tangible yet, not even tangible to the mind. But you’re feeling it, trust me, you’re feeling it and you can’t seem to point out what exactly is going on in that head or heart of yours. So you tell a friend, you tell them you feel like writing but you have nothing to write, not really. They say it’s writer’s block, you say it’s not. It isn’t writers block. You would know what writer’s block felt like. And you’re right, of course. This isn’t writers block. They aren’t this magical. You wouldn’t be feeling if you had writer’s block. But you are, you are feeling.
So this isn’t writer’s block. This is just a block. A block. A block of life, I guess, in whichever way you see and interpret it, progression or obstacle, they are both blocks for you to pick and play with, just choices of what’s next and reflections of what’s happened. They are blocks you just look at, to marvel and to feel and to remember that sometimes it’s just a feeling for you to feel. The feeling to write. You have the feeling to write. And that’s okay, that’s magical. Whether it ends or whether it doesn’t begin that’s okay, it’s just a block.
I dont know what this is. It’s a completely new style of prose writing for me. But this is very real nonetheless