A Prose With No Direction

block

Hugh and I talk for a while before he leaves, the sky turning orange as the sun takes a twelve-hour break. 

Legs walk themselves out of the roof and lead me towards my desk, paper, and pen. Ass sits itself down onto its red, five-wheel, spinning chair, and fingertips caress the figure of the black, gel Paper Mate pen that I so proudly own.

But then a block comes before my pen and my paper. 

A block, the size of a Rubik's cube and made of hard concrete, comes in between the lips of my Paper Mate pen and the lips of my looseleaf, preventing them from having their long-awaited kiss scene. I try to remove the block, hands gripping its huge figure, but I can't seem to pull it out. I try and try and try to pull it, removing its interruption so that the pen and paper can finally kiss.

But nothing seems to work.

There was a term for this—I searched it up.

But I can seem to remember what it is now. 

Eyes look out the window, looking for something, something they know is not there, that'll help remove the block that separates the touch of pen and paper. 

I wonder and wonder and wonder.

.

.

.

.

.

And then I stopped wondering.

When you look for something you want or something you think you need, you'll never gonna find it.

If you want to look for it, you have to wait.

You wait until what you're looking for finds you.

And the same goes for inspiration.

When you look for inspiration, you'll never gonna find it.

Because you have to wait for it to find you.

Eyes look away from the window and look down at the paper.

The block soon disappears from my sight.