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The wrath of the writers block.

29/06/2015 Writers block I am currently in the midst of an intense bout of writer's block. I have been swept up in the waves of banality and unwillingly grasped by uncreativity, a demon set on rendering my fingers incapable of producing poignant prose. Where my mind whirls with wit and wonder, my physical being seems numb to production. Instead, my hands hover futile over a keyboard that now seems so unfamiliar; a place that mere days ago felt natural and fluent now seems foreign and impossible. I am no writer, I am a fraud.

What is my style?

What is my voice?

What am I trying to say?

These questions invite no answer. Instead I remain speechless, lost for the words to articulate, lost of my written identity. Instead, what remains is an ache. An ache only worsened by a mind fraught with insecurities, vicious and angry thoughts thawing away at my artistic ambitious, driving further away my desire.

I am inadequate.

I am inexperienced.

I am inferior.

Clutched in the corroding grip of a demon so intent on silence, where do I go from here? I can't find my voice. I have no voice. Am I humourous? Am I poetic? Am I a volatile mass of different voices submerged into one, a being of inconsistent and untamable temperament?

I don't know who I want to be and I don't know how I want to write. I seek a niche; a prose so desirable, a prose so admirable, a prose so indisputably mine.

I want to be a writer. I just want to write.

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