I can hear the keyboard shaking under my finger-tips. My soul is talking. It fills the room with moments. The air moves with experiences that drum a click tapping on black plastic that is made for stating miracles. I need to stretch but don’t want to miss the music. This blank page has never held so many stories. The veins in my hand tell them. I listen. A sweat bead falls and it is cold when it hits my side.
Is this what it feels to write? Before the words are seen. Before I get in the way. The great silent screaming of a smile, a goodbye, a mistake. His face before his heart stopped. Her lips when she whispered. Crying in the dark. When the air moved in front of him so as to stop regret.
A hundred half clicks underneath my fingers while I bleed sweat for the moments before they become words.
I wonder how to write.
Recently I was picked up by a publisher, under contract for two books I’ve written and a third that should be on its way. It’s not. My musings on writers block. Anyone else?