Writers Block Lament

I haven't written in weeks. What's wrong with me? I sit in front of my computer and stare at the blank screen. The damn cursor is mocking me with it's constant blinking. I play a few games of solitaire. The frustration is building with each wasteful second. Maybe if I look at newspapers or photographs. Who am I kidding. My head hurts from trying to squeeze out an idea. I play a few more games of solitaire. The boredom is immense. I surf the internet desperately looking at writing prompts. Surely something, somewhere will tickle my brain with an idea. Nothing. With sad resignation I turn off the computer and go shopping.

I meet friends for lunch and they tell me I seem a million miles away. I am. A million miles inside the deepest, darkest, hellhole of my brain searching for my muse. And when I find it, I don't know whether to hug it or kick it in the ass. My friends converstions do not interest me. We end the lunch and I go home.

I read a book, or attempt to anyway. My comprehension is so befuddled I read the same paragraph several times. My favorite author does not interest me.

I roam the house with the whimsical idea that maybe my muse is hiding in a dark corner or closet and just needs to be coaxed out. The dishes are piling up and the beds need to be made. I grab a beer, cigarettes and make a lethargic path to the deck. I sit, take a gulp of beer, light a cigarette and curse fate for dealing me such a cruel twist of writers block.

A sudden, violent gust of wind rustles the leaves in the treetops. I look up. What is that? A dark shadow, hooded and cloaked, seems to be peering at me through the branches. I can't tell. It's too far away. Something long forgotten stirs from slumber in the forbidden recesses of my brain. I had seen the same shadow as a child. An idea begins to form. Yes, Yes! I rise, rush past the piled up dishes, and feverishly run to my computer. I hug my muse with glee as my fingers dance across the keyboard with renewed hope.