I've been working on breaking my writer's block once and for all. There are some dark forces afoot but I'm working my way through the murkiness, with thanks to Kirsty and her perfect understanding of an artist's mind, I might add.
Apparently, the above picture, which I took during a trip to Cardinham woods at the weekend, represents my life at the moment. There are two personalities in the picture: an old "me" and a new "me". The new one is growing strongly in the foreground but the old one has crossed its arms and isn't happy at being in the background (in other words: the old me is fighting the change). An interesting concept and quite accurate. I love how these things can be put into art to give it more meaning.
Anyway. Part of the writing work was to write about something; anything. Just so long as I wrote. And this is what I managed to achieve:
Blank pages frustrate me. It means that I have to force myself to think of words to fill the vacant lines, like I know anything in the world!
Blank pages whisper incriminations; they spike your nights with frustrated dreams. Grey lines - flat liners. No cadence, no rise and fall. Monotonous existence of a vast emptiness.
A blank page can bleed tears from stories never written. The empty space can warp perspective into a never-ending fear.
Then I must fill them - write something in the vacuum, my voice unheard unless I scream and then, still unheard.
I could lose myself in an empty page. My thoughts sucked out and absorbed into the fibres. The ink in the pen dries as the nib hovers above the paper. A wordless sight. Invisible.