Pragmatic

Writers block is a pretty serious problem I would say, ranking up there with death, taxes, and the third thing. It is amazing that one can have a nice, clean slate with which to address everything they feel is of pertinence, only to be confronted with the inability to. And, worst of all, this inability is undeniably self imposed. So, then, one finds one's self sitting in front of an immaculate precipice of language and unwilling to peer over. Perhaps one's thoughts are not worth documenting. Maybe the existing vocabulary cannot encompass the full gamut of what so desperately needs to be expressed. I have found this fear is easiest over come in a way like so many others. Don't think about the consequences of an action until the consequences have already followed. At least it takes the guess work out of things.

If you awoke one fine, albeit noisy, Sunday morning, and the events that transpired in the most recent evening passed and those of the dreams even more immediate are blended together into a melange of truth and fiction, and you did not know which of those the good events were a part of, would you insist so heavily still on getting up?

Just like these, a hundred unfinished thoughts. A thousand unaccompanied rhymes. Enough under developed strokes of brilliance to drown the mind in a satiating flood of words, images, and simple strings of syllables that at sometime had seemed to spout so smoothly. Theses that could change a world, arguments that could a alter a mind, and poems that could reach a soul. Or, even worse, expressing in a personal way those raw emotions that refuse to stay contained in a place taken over by memories that weren't compatible. These glorious words and sentences wrangled by fear and kept pent up away from the pens that would free them.