You roll over once more in your bed and check the time, 4 a.m. Well into the night you heard muted intrusions of thunder, rain. You crawl out of that damned bed that has not served its purpose the last hour. You drag your feet to the table, pen in hand and you stare at the blank page ahead of you. It’s a brick wall you’ve hit and can’t muster the strength to jump over it. That page has to be filled somehow otherwise you are backing down from a challenge, you can’t throw this out the window because you are a man, you want to prove to yourself you have it in you to bang something great every week, it’s all that you want; well, that and a beard.
You place your forehead on the table and say a silent prayer because you are failing, you were only told this would be tough but no one prepared you for this kind of feeling, so you sit there holding back tears and it hurts deeply that you have suddenly been reduced to sitting on the lap of the gods to write something. After several calls for help from your ancestors you give up, you shut your eyes and you think back to the days when words could flow through your pen like greased lightning. You can’t lodge your complaints out loud, no one will completely understand, the struggle you go through, as they see it, isn’t worth a thimble of piss, so you suffer silently, in isolation.
You gasp, your eyes widen, your face lights up and you snap your fingers like Dexter, finally it hits you, an intro comes from nowhere so you scribble it as fast as you can. It all comes down to a load of shit when you get stuck barely two sentences in it. You grab your earphones and plug them in but you soon realize that no amount of Jermaine Cole music will be your saving grace, at least not this time. The block has crept behind you and mauled you over. At this point you conclude that you need a stiff drink, but you can only find a box full of terrible red wine. So you pour yourself a glass but you don’t want your mother finding out, she’ll now confirm that you may actually be gay- the first instance was when you were three and you thought high heels were the shit, she caned the hell out of you but not because you could have fallen on your ass and never walked again, no, it’s because she doesn’t want you to be gay.
As expected, that drink does nothing to help, you decide to take a morning walk, to ruffle the dew with your flip flops, the only thing missing now is a dog to walk, and the knowledge of swimming, then you’d be white. A stream has formed somewhere below, you go and sit by it and take it in, the humid air fills your nostrils and your mind shifts to the sound of the water sweeping through the bank. You look up and see an opening, a patch of blue. The ancestors have heard your cries and you are struck by a touch of inspiration. You can only take a shot of that.
Again I find myself in the middle of a block. Usually I have an article ready two or three days before I actually post. This hasn’t been the case this week; I have even looked at past pictures and tried to piece together a story but nothing came up. Also this week, I’ve seen some great stats which is very humbling. The picture up there was taken by a good reader of mine. I sign out with a picture I took with Sonia one evening; it’s very raw I swear.