HOME | DD

Description
The fountain pen on the lined paper sitting in front of me is still, cap over the wondrous blade. Its lifeblood does not flow, does not paint the words spinning and colliding to form ideas inside my cranium.
Because there are none.
My fingers dance over the plastic keys of the machine harnessing mankind's genius, writing the thoughts that spill over the edge of the chalice that holds my imagination, the weightless froth that holds no substance.
I look down my olive-tan arms, the scratches and scrapes of wear adding more froth to the overflow filling the page. The words grow and grow, a tidal wave of letters and punctuation and words turning into paragraph after paragraph of meaning to those whose eyes seek it. But do I really offer anything? No. But if they want, they can take it.
No thoughts. Nothing to fill the void of creativity, the urge to create through prose overwhelming as my muse turns away and refuses to work her magic. I do not force what does not wish to come to me.
As I write down my thoughts so that others may read them, my brain still whirls uselessly. None of the objects surrounding me give me any substance from which to draw an idea; no spark of genius is kindled in the airless vacuum that is my mind.
I will try again later.