The little things

Unwritten

So, here I am at half two in the morning, unable to sleep and unable to write because every story has already been written, every song already composed, every poem has closed its final stanza and every design has been drawn.

The heartbreak record is broken.
The love songs are no longer lovable.
Sadness is never sad enough.
The supernatural is no longer mysterious.
The problematic now consist of molehills not mountains.
The real world isn't the 'real' people want to read about.
The extraordinary is mundane.

When everything about everything has already been written, what do you write.

As a creator, not being able to create is infuriating.
My life isn't interesting enough to provide the drama everyone desires.
I don't get the gossip everyone wants.

A creator who can't create need to reevaluate quickly as someone once said.
Apparently the key is to stepping out of my comfort zone.
I can't.
I don't have the time or the capability or the ability.

If I step out of my comfort zone,
I destroy my life,
The only way I can step out is by doing things that will not benefit me.
The last time I stepped out, I could see my life starting to fall apart at the seams.

If I don't,
I loose any possible options.
There is no inspiration, no creativity and no new material.
I have reached the inevitable inner train wreck of living.

It's now half three,
It took me an hour just to write this,
The impossibility of creativity,
Is an endless pain.

And I can't seem to fill pages with words that term with originality.
My pens inks remain full.
And everything remains unwritten.