Trying to get rid of writer's block.

How many hours have I stared at Microsoft Word’s blank screen, the curser blinking . . . blinking. Maybe hundreds, into the tens of thousands . . . thousands of hours. Why do I sit here like a loon, sometimes with no sound around, and allow my head to whiteout, draw blanks? It is the way I am. Sometimes I move the chair slightly to the left, see if that will flair some ideas. I wait for the first legit thought worth the effort to type. When it comes, when black first shows on screen, I stare for seconds, press backspace, sigh, wait. Something is there and it will surely show soon. It has to. My dependence relies on it. If I can’t do this, I can do nothing. It doesn’t come. And that’s alright. It is not time. I have no control. My brain is in the way, and I can’t allow this to be. Nothing will appear on the page if that be the case. The trick is to wait. Now I remember how it works. I have no control. Think of how it feels. It feels good to realize that when something worth ink shoots out my fingers, it makes the lonesome white-out hours worth years of wasted time. And when it gets an attitude, starts to get rhythm, I keep my head down and out of the way. I don’t even listen. If I do, my mind will interfere and the rhythm will trip and my narrative will stutter. Remember this. Norm McDonald: “Note to self.” I need to be aware before my time. Focus. Know this now before it’s too late: the brain is for revision, not for creation. I long for the feeling of when the time arrives, when that mysterious creative power shoots out of me. When that time comes, I will be happier than any of you fuckers out there breathing heavy, snoring in your sleep. I do not envy you. Know that. And it is that creative power that pears out of me that makes everything worth while – including you and me. I wish the best for you, and I say this for everyone. I want nothing but the best for those who are closest to me – even more for you than me. We are all brothers and sisters. Don’t get prejudice when I say that. Calm down. We are all connected. Isn’t that beautiful? It is. Call me corny, I will still love you. This is me. I heard someone say a week back that will never leave me. He said something like, “Every single soul on this entire earth is in some way or another connected to you.” That makes me feel good. Call me corny. Maybe it’s not so bad to be me, to be corny. Why do I have to feel bad to be me? I am the only living person who lives in my body every single day. Am I like a roommate gone sour with myself? Does that make sense? Is there no hope? I hate being a part of this fucked up world. How can he do that? How can she do that? Is there no dignity or shame? No integrity? Oh, but I believe that there is. But how does it feel to be in your body and most of all, in your fucked up head? I have a need to know. How can you be . . . how can I possibly be connected to you? It doesn’t matter. Why does it seem impossible for peace to exist? Is it possible? Maybe we have complicated things in this entire ruffle. Do we need to step back and humble ourselves and make these complications a little more simple? After all, we are connected. There is something like 7 billion of us, all in one way or another connected. Doesn’t that matter? This is me. How can I hide that? I cannot even hide behind my words. There is no better way for me to paint my portrait but through these words. This is what and who I am. I can’t help that. I need to accept it, so why can’t you? You and I are all insane. I accept myself. Do you accept you? We should come to grips. We are the same. We all suffer from fear, and all learn how to live without it. Do you understand that? I know I don’t. Sometimes I can’t. If there were no such thing as insanity, there would be world peace. Let’s face it. All we can do is find peace within ourselves.