A Writer's Breath

            There’s no air in my lungs. I can’t breathe. Some invisible force obstructs every breath I try to take. What could it be? What ‘s keeping me from doing what has always come most naturally to me?

            Writer’s Block.

            Yes, I hate to say it, but I have self-diagnosed myself with the worst disease known to writers. It keeps my hand from holding a pen like arthritis. It fills my mind with obstacles, pounding at the edges of my brain like a migraine. It takes away my passion, the substance I need to live, suffocating me like asthma.

            A cure. I need to find a cure. I’ve been waiting for one. I’ve been praying for God to miraculously heal me and fill my mind with inspiration, but I think it doesn’t work that way. How can I expect a doctor to cure me if I never go to pick up the prescription?

            I need to get out. I need to reach out. Where can I be inspired? Not in my room, in bed, with only my pessimistic thoughts as company. A bookstore, my family, a poetry reading, my youth group…all pharmacies ready to administer a dosage of inspiration if I’m willing to go.

            I’ve tried.

            As my fingers caress the keyboard, delivering word after loving word onto the screen, I almost want to cry. It’s been so long. I’ve missed writing so much. Finally, the dose is beginning to take effect.

            My hands shake less, the deafening fog in my mind is dissipating, and, at last, I take a deep breath and let the air kiss my lungs.