writer’s procrastination

My e-mail is cleaned up and I still don’t know what to write about. I go upstairs to moisturize my skin and I come back down to a blank page. My heart is racing from the double shot of espresso I had earlier in the morning and I still don’t know how to get scribbling. I’ve opened up my packages from Amazon finally, after waiting a couple of days due to THE virus, and still, nothing. I go back upstairs to brush and floss my teeth, but when I come back down it’s still nada on the screen. I watch an episode of one of my favorite TV shows and then come back and not a single letter materializes on my Word document. I go do the dishes and then look out the window for a little bit. A fly has attached itself on the glass and while it stares out into space, I scratch the glass with my finger. The fly rubs its front legs together like a scheming person. Oh how I wish I could scheme some words onto the page. I walk away again, this time accidentally bruising my knee and wondering if bruising my knee could ever happen on purpose. I mean, I suppose if I’m a parkour expert or something, but I imagine I wouldn’t pull any stunt to bruise myself on purpose, right? Nope, there’s no logical reason why getting a bruise would ever not be on accident, just like there’s no logical reason why I can’t seem to find the words to fill this page. As I am nursing my knee on the couch, I stare at a painting on the wall. It is one my parents had bought from my art teacher from a long time ago. My mom didn’t really like it, but I did because it had a butterfly in it, so she reluctantly got it. It was the beginning of me fighting for my right to be heard. If only this page could hear me in my time of need and spill some words out. Nothing. My eyes shift over to my bed. I yawn and really want my head to make friends with the pillow. My eyes agree. I think they are tired of looking at a lot of nothing, so my brain agrees as well. I remove my butt from the chair. I think I’m good to work on this writer’s block tomorrow…

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