In The In-Between
The curse of the blank page is something that shouldn’t plague me.
I am a writer.
Words are my thing.
They free me; so why, do I somehow feel so completely trapped.
As I stare at the blank page, so fresh with all number of possibilities, I wonder why it paralyses me like this, when it is meant to be the very thing that frees me.
Looking away from the screen and around the room, I glare at the sunlight gleaming into the room, and blazing off the page, making it seem even whiter than normal.
I didn’t want to give in to it, but the words simply wouldn’t come, and as the time ticked down, slowly bleeding my life away, I realised that I really had nowhere to go from here.
The feeling crippled me, making me feel impotent; broken.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t imagine another day like today…
and that’s why I did it.
That’s why I am now laying in a hospital bed, in a coma, with only a slim chance of waking.
I know I should feel bad; wrong, even, but the only thing I feel is regret. Regret that I am laying here in this bed, rather than cold, in a casket in the ground.
