I sat down only to stare at a blank piece of paper. No words were coming to my mind even though I had the desire to be writing. There were no words to describe my frustration at not being able to get anything on the paper. It was almost as if the whiteness was laughing at me; mocking me by pointing out that it was still empty.
The pen in my hand felt like a lead weight as I wrestled with my own creativity. Suddenly, as if someone had switched on a light, the idea of writing about my block seemed to be a great one.
Ink began flowing from the pen as different ideas seem to escape from the mind. I felt as fluid as the ink itself as to page started to fill up. The relief I felt was almost palpable as I watched the white paper become covered in black ink that was making up the words of my piece.
Before today, I would never have thought that blankness could end up as a positive piece of work. As I finished, I debated the very existence of writers block. Maybe I was destined to write this today?
Written for Sunday photo fiction