Storybook

Inhibition 

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and began to concentrate. Come on, come on, she silently prayed. Waiting for the words to flash in her mind and let her fingers guide themselves on the keyboard. Come on, COME ON. She prayed and prayed. Waiting for something, for anything to come to mind and to give her an excuse to start writing it down.

But after a futile 8th attempt to begin a story, she cried out in frustration and threw her laptop to her side.
What was going on? Why wasn’t anything coming out? Why couldn’t she think of a story, a line, a word, and a concept, anything to give her that familiar feeling of… creativity? That rare fuzzy feeling one gets when that person knows that whatever that person is doing, the end result is going to turn out into a magnificent piece of work.

Why couldn't she feel it? What was she doing wrong? Why couldn't she think of anything to make her feel like her brain is capable of producing literary works that would make readers sigh, laugh, cry, muse all at the same time and fall in love with the characters like they were real people, like friends in real life?

She buried her face in her hands and sighed. Why was it she didn't feel so creative and bright anymore? Why couldn't she feel the life of a thought pulsating through her veins, taking in her sight and might to make something truly breath taking?

She couldn't she feel the sense of ingenuity, that vision, that focus one gets, or that sense of usefulness, resourcefulness, the sense of being worthy of something? So she asked herself over and over, why couldn’t she feel anything?

She felt so plain, dull, boring, and gray with no shade of color. She felt so constrained and distracted. Nothing held her interest, nothing inspired her. It felt like her brain took a nap and refuses to wake up. She felt like she was losing herself. Her personality, her bright persona and letting it drift away into a dark, lonely place, no mind ever wishes to visit.

She felt so…. Lifeless.

Was it normal to feel this way for a long period of time? Is it smart to still believe she had a chance to revive herself? To give her a shock or a bolt of energy, any form of life that would wake her up from this terrible feeling?

Anything? Was there anything out there to make her feel like herself again? Was there anything that would suck this mind numbing sensation and breathe life and freedom into her? That warmth she used to feel, that love of creative energy, that sensation that she was so accustomed to. Was there anything that would break her free from this cruel inhibition?

She wanted to make it all stop. She wants to get rid of this filth that accumulated inside of her. She wants to wipe away the dust that has settled itself onto her real personality. And crack open this shell of constant taunts, opinions people have of her and stretch out into the bright yellow sunshine. Letting the warmth caress her skin and letting her soul breathe in that familiarity of how it feels like to be ALIVE.

All she wants to do is write things that would constantly remind her of the things she is capable of imagining and believing. Her hopes and dreams, her worth, all captured in a set of words that would remind her of how real she can be if she tried. How wonderful, how powerful her mind can be is she wanted to make it so. All she wanted to do was to feel, what she used to feel.

All she wants to do is to be herself again.

All she wants to do is to write.

Image from Google.