Trying to write when the words will not come.
Trying to clutch at the phrases which elusively flit through your consciousness and teasingly shimmer in front of your minds eye, but refuse to submit; refuse to be ordered and arranged.
Instead, these words flit and float and dance, safe in their interior, safe in their mind shroud and away from the harsh light of focus and actualisation.
Trying to write, when the words resist capture.
The words and sentences billow inside of you; they coil and uncoil, but resist having their potential realised, resist having their content scraped out and onto paper or a computer screen.
Your fingers bleed, your eyes sting.
But the words resist.
The meaning you ache to exhale only wafts and morphs and eludes your grasping concentration and flailing point of view.
Your brain flexes and bends with that feeling of something, that feeling of an idea; just there on the tip of your tongue, but lingering away still in uncertainty and shadow.
Writers block is a sensation of roaring frustration and a blind gasping lack of words. The lack of any ability to express.
The lack of any ability to express anything.
Like a fish flopping about on dry land- its lips twitching and straining; desperately trying to make something of dry air.
Wriggling and twitching, you blind yourself to stare down those words, you impale yourself on your own stake of desperation to make something feasible, to actualise a potential, to express the meaning as it appears to you.
To capture the words and stab their essence into a sentence; to throttle their meaning into existence.
To express the thing which is trying to break out of you.