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Ink hit the paper. A dot. Nothing more. No other curves of another lyric flowed from the spot. Pressing the pen harder and further onto the page, the pinpoints expanded into a black opaque shape, suffocating the cleanliness of the white surface, the tip of the pen just a fragment of the ever growing black hole.
'That's me'. A whisper from her lips and into the dark corners of her bedroom. She pulled the pen off the surface of her empty notepad. The pitch black cloud of ink halted it's growing, as if the pen was the lifeline that kept it breathing.
It was not the trouble of finding a segment of her thoughts that could bring passion into her body, from the sweet taste her first love put in her mouth to the hair-raising chill the winter air blew across her arms. What she was faced with was transferring these provocative and deep feelings to paper.
Almost feeling that the dark splodge was spying at her, mocking the lack of creative ability that travelled through her, she turned the page over.
Eagerness struck.
Flicking back to the unperfected page that watched her, words travelled up from her gut and onto her tongue.
'I'm a dot on a page,
A passing thought that flew away,
Just a minor point of a stage,
The source to what grew day by day.'
Seizing the pen, tightening her delicate fingers in a vice like grip around the plastic ridges, the nib touched the paper'and pulled away instantly. Just the touch of the pen onto the page sent a burn through her veins, slicing her thoughts into shattered pieces.
Only air stood between the canvas and the brush, so why was the artist seeing a fifty million foot wide brick wall guarding the glorious chance to paint their inner desires and beliefs?
Writer's Block.