A Prose With No Direction

- - - - -

Geniuses work on desks.

Or at least, I thought they did.

This new hobby of mine has taken quite a toll on the mind, leaving me with unanswered questions and unquestioned answers. I thought that the new surroundings would give the mind the motivation to crave an idea which then the fingers would follow and create a prose.

But I was wrong.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Fingernails tap, scrape, and break on a surface of white, trashed by loose paper and dried-up pens. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap.

Tap.

Mind spins on words that force themselves in a sentence, words without meaning, words without context. They spin and spin and spin until they stand together to make a chain as they please or as they see fit.

But their formation makes no sense!

It makes no goddamn sense.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Then the words, as quickly as they come, fly away. They leave my mind hollow, and I can no longer think.

I can no longer operate.

I can no longer learn.

I scurry to the internet, a public and social place where the darkest of dark happen as God's eyes are turned away. I inquire the software's intelligence about this feeling of mine. 

The intelligence responded with, Writers's Block.

No wonder!

It makes sense to call this insufferable disease to be a writer's block. It is really as if someone has placed a wall between the two sides of a brain just how America split itself from her sister country, Mexico. It really does cause chaos and confusion.

How are you to create a prose when the left and right don't coordinate? When logic and creativity don't harmonize?

How are you to create something that people will understand and enjoy?

This damn so-called writer's block is a pain in the ass.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

I lay my head on the desk.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Geniuses work on desks.

Idiots lay on desks. 

I guess I really am an idiot.

I look at her in inquiry which to she responds with a shrug. I sigh and close my eyes.

Maybe I'll find some inspiration in my nightmares.