Stuck. And sullen.

I've been trying to write all day. A few words, a line or two. The tragedy is, this seems to be turrning into a Ph.D.proposal. Not a single idea in my under-challenged head.

Usually, it helps to focus on a real incident/feeling/ thought. To just put it on paper in a cathartic regurgitation. Much like an incontinent cat, just marking my territory, making sure I remember I was there. Today, all my self-help has fallen flat. I cannot focus. I cannot opine. Hell, I can't even vent.

Am not enough of a writer to be experiencing that glamarous malady, a writer's block. I wish I was but even in my most grandiose moments, I can't help but be aware of my pitiful limitations when it comes to actually expelling that bolus of non-articulation that seems to have travelled from my head into the pit of my stomach and is sitting there like a
tightly-knotted, malvolent, malignant, lump.

I wish I could be more like the proficient word-weavers I know. That I could be inspired. That an idea would take root and sprout into a surprisingly tall tale.I wish could switch it on and let it spill. Instead, I wait, conflicted, confused, almost concussed. Critically crippled.

I wish I could creep into that gap between the concave and the convex. Stay there. For a few minutes or all of perceived eternity.

I wish I could un-cork that de-oxygenated partial-brain.

I wish I could comprehend String Theory. Maybe that would give me something to say.