Every image that takes form in the grey cells looks like something I'd seen before. Every idea that crosses my mind seems to have been said or talked about before a hundred million times.
Blame it on lethargy or plain lack of inspiration, it is not happening today. The owl is wide awake. Looking at a hazy image of itself in the mirror at the other corner of a vast expanse. The bed light gleams in depressing blue, the same blue that looked like a source for the revival of senses just last week. The spacebar gives trouble functioning and my thumb thumps it after every word. Wish I had the power to change this futile brain as quickly as I could think of changing this out-dated machine. A Mac. A Viao may be, in avacado green. I am partial to green be it the deepest bordering on black or the palest leaning towards off white. Green - the color of life! Which gets me back to a lifeless state of mind.
A book, a short story, a little passage or just a sentence may be?
Why oh why?
Block - something that happens to non-writers as well, I realise!
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