713

This is creative silence at its finest, congesting the crevices of my mind and the fingertips of my hands. I am. I am. The words are there and I cannot find the perfect match, the synonym to explain it. I am, what? What am I? I am here. Sitting. There is coffee on my left and something on my right. This is me resorting to reality. And even then I cannot fucking respect grammar. There is a lot in my head and it makes me, makes me: what?

Maybe it’s the dust that chokes me little by little in my sleep, tiny particles that play witness to my struggle. No, no, this is ridiculous. I am, once again, relying on what is here. Here. How odd it is to tell you that. Your here is not my here. So my now is your then.
I need to breathe and step back.

Why did you stop writing?

It died. That unexplainable thing that convinces you writing it down is a good idea?

Writers get me; that tickle in your mind that makes you itch mad. The feeling of exhilaration when you create everything with twenty-six characters and none of them are protagonists. That feeling man.

Yeah.

Dead.

The pencil in my head is pointless because it cannot write when there’s nothing to write. I don’t even know why I say that because I hate writing with pencil.

And now?

“I am here,” I say with difficulty. What is this god damned here? “I am where I am, then.” No, shut up. Stop trying to sound vague and interesting and deep because this is nowhere deep. “I feel here.” You grew out of that phase, remember? You are now capable of writing more than one dimensional characters that depend more on interpretation than effort.

“Hahaha.”

I know.

Tell us, then, what you have been up to.

Oh, honey. I’ve been living the life. Morning alarms and scheduled classes, and I mean the shitty high school requirements classes, none of those fancy electives. It’s like eating burger and fries without the taste. Like, shitty. I’m trying to tell you how shitty it is. The afternoon naps and classroom discussions. It’s the ramen noodles of my existence.

ME: How do you plan on handling this mundane madness?

ME: Did you know? Whatever I say after that rhetorical question, I will sound deep. I will inspire you in ways you will probably forget in a few hours. That, and also that I want to tell you that using a word such as mundane followed by madness is very contradictory and you should know better than that now.

Anything else you wish to share?

“Hopeless,” I think to myself with a descriptive adjective. “The carnage of my writing,” I do not say out loud because I usually speak Spanish and who says carnage out loud? I sit here, my bent back a constant reminder of how little I think of small consequences. I sit here and I wonder how I could do this. If you feel this the way I do: the Berlin Wall of creative inspiration separating me from my means of expression.

Piss off! I want to tell my fragmented mind. Get your shit together .

I wish I could think more than pretty one-liners that leave me yearning for more than satisfied with less. I wish my muse didn’t knock on my door when I am holding orange juice in the supermarket’s waiting line. I wish art didn’t punch me in the head when I am stepping over cement cracks. I wish inspiration would stop avoiding me when I sit down in front of a pixilated screen.

Then this could be it.

I am looking at my book shelf when it dawns upon me. I can feel it creep up letter by l e t t e r. This is it: I am taking it back. I am batting down this internal silence. I am fighting against this suppressed need. I am fighting back.

Hahahahaha, I win writer’s block.

Because from this moment on, I am the author of your existence and the quality of my creation surpasses its absence.

In the end, seven hundred and thirteen words were all I needed.