Soft light emanates from the candles lining the pine “community” style table. As it grows darker outside, the wicks in the candles lose their shape and size. The light begins to slowly fade, creating a calm serenity. The music rages on, pulsing through the body like a life-line, suffocating and resuscitating my focus in waves.
The whirring noise of the coffee grinder interrupts my thoughts. Only briefly, before I am brought back with another welcome distraction. Two girls sit in the corner, partially facing each-other, partially facing the window. Their indistinct chatter lulls in and out of my ear. They are enjoying themselves, just like everyone else here.
I can’t help but think, it’s been a long 6 months since I have put pen to paper. I am stuck in an unending habit of writer’s block. And it is a habit, an expectation, an assumption. I have fostered a negative relationship with writing. The assumption that I have nothing of worth to produce facilitates my inability to write.
The heart shape in my vanilla latte moves from side to side as I press the cup to my lips. The milk and vanilla create the perfect commixture of flavours to compliment the freshly roasted beans.
These bursts of creativity come on unannounced, and leave just as abruptly. Like the first snowfall of November. Can I really waste my breath complaining? Before now I was complaining about being unable, and unmotivated to paint, or draw. Here I am now, painting nearly every day, and unable to write.
Perhaps the flip-flop between the two is necessary for my creative production. My focus strays – the devotion I lend to each art is immeasurable. It’s merely a matter of finding that devotion.
I find it here, from time to time. But just as before, in these states, it is fleeting. I can’t rush it. I can’t push it on. The product of forced writing is contrived and uncomfortable. The discomfort resonates long after I lay my pen down and close the book.
I believe there are therapeutic aspects underlying the act of writing. I often use it as my mirror – I see myself reflected in the pages. I can’t lie when I write. It would be like pretending to be something I’m not.
So, I remain stuck in this sort of limbo, forever destined to write about how miserable and morose I am, suffering as a writer with endless writer’s block.
Until I’m not.
These pages, my mirror, currently reflect my struggles: my inability to write or create, the fear of never writing again, repetition bordering on neurosis.