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I can't write.
No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I just can't write.
I've tried typing, I've tried writing by hand, I've even tried recording my voice, I search for the words and they're nowhere to be found.
Once upon a time, I couldn't articulate my thoughts. I couldn't relay my feelings.
I was locked in a dark room with all the words and I had no idea how to use them.
Then I discovered writing.
And the world opened up before me in a flash of blinding beauty.
The thick, rich forests of the world stunned me with their greens, the endless blues of the infinite oceans left me speechless. Cities rose and fell in the blink of an eye and I had the whole world in the palm of my hand.
All the thoughts I had, be they hopes, fears, or the most vivid of dreams, were instantly available.
And all I had to do was write.
Writing gave me the voice I so desperately needed.
Writing gave me hope.
Throughout the years, my relationship with writing blossomed into something beautiful.
Through writing, I was able to create life.
I was able to take daydreams and turn them into stories. I was able to watch my feelings and my thoughts wage war on the paper.
Writing helped me connect with other people as well.
I was able to meld words with sweet melodies to create music.
With the most splendid synonyms, I was able to create poetic paintings with my words.
My words were my super power.
When I needed them to, my words could flow like honey or burn like fire. They could conceal the truth or illuminate it.
Whenever I had need, I had words.
And now they're gone.
Now, I stare blankly at a pale white screen as the blinking cursor taunts me.
My wrist aches as I frustratingly twirl a useless pencil.
Ambient silence flows through my speaker as I take a deep breath but can't find the words.
I walk into the fortress of my mind and am greeted by silence.
Drinking halls lay empty and silent.
Bedrooms remain well-kept and unused.
Where I would once lay and play God, there was a shadow of a dream.
The rubble of broken empires, the exasperated sighs of star-crossed lovers, even a young boy on a hill, are all silent.
It's not my fault.
Though I suppose nobody ever said it was.
Sometimes the seas are just too choppy to sail.
Sometimes the skies are just too turbulent to fly.
Sometimes the storms rage too hard for too long and you can't go outside.
Sometimes things are out of your control and you just have to accept it.
And yet I can't.
I find no solace in submission. I find no absolution in allowing myself to admit I'm not responsible.
I can solve the puzzle, but I'm watching at home on my couch.
I can win the game, but I'm buried on the sideline.
I am a spectator in my own life, and while all the pieces fall into place around me, I get the sense that it isn't my puzzle.
As my portrait approaches completion, I don't recognize the face in the acrylic mirror.
And now, when I need my words the most, when I reach for my greatest gift, it's gone.
I turn the key in the ignition and the car doesn't start.
I go to pull Excalibur from the stone and it doesn't budge.
I gasp for air and my voice is gone.
I'm back in the room where it all started.
It's blacker than the darkest night, and the silence is deafening.