I Was Once

I was once a writer, to whom words followed beautifully, as well as an artist, to whom pictures flowed as well. I was once many things, though now I am unsure.1

They call it writer's block, but I call it a curse. Writer's block shouldn't make you forget how to draw, or paint, or play music. I poured my heart into my sketchbook, and into my journal, not bothering to wonder where they came from. I payed no mind that the world within myself was withering as I went on and on. Once my sketchbook and journal were full, and I went back to my paradise to find the next challenge, it was gone. It was silent from a lack of life and lack of color. The wind that had once carried words no carried nothing but air. Empty air. 2

They tell me it's just block, and that it will go away. I hope that's true. In the meantime, I wait beneath the deadened tree, and wait for my paradise to come back to life.

A contest entry

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  • This Will Hurt
    January 11, 2008
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    This is really very sad, to have your imagination ripped from you. Hopefully your creative ways will come back to you someday! Anyways, I liked this because it was different and there really wasn't anything that I didn't like about it. Thanks for entering, and good luck!