Short Stories

Ink Block

My hands hover over the paper, aching to press down the pen onto the white sheet but I cannot write. My mind is empty yet my heart yearns to spill everything that I feel but there's the twist.

I don't feel. I can't feel. I have lost myself to my thoughts, to my past friends, to my past but I promised them I'd fight through and trust me, I have!

I've tried sleeping yet I can't. I wake up everyday at two AM, staring at the clock, willing it to move quicker but it ignores my requests and watches me cry. I shake when I'm at school, having to hold my own hand or fiddle with my skirt to calm myself down.

I've tried reading, to be apart of the world that isn't real but I can't. I've lost all interest, I cannot focus, I cannot flip a page without having to re-read it through my blurry vision. I loved escaping my world for another universe yet I'm glued here now with no escape - with no one to pull me out of this horror house.

I've tried writing but I can't think of any ideas. My imagination is gone and I try to force the non-existent water out of the sponge but it doesn't sound like me. Because it isn't but you can't tell can you? That's all that matters.

I shook the pen vigorously, pressing it to the papers but there seems to be none coming out.

Huh. I guess this one has an ink block.