November 2, 2000: Evidence of a writer’s constipation

The pen sits silent—does it have words to share? Days like these are empty, a fresh bloom without scent. There’s no river to jump into! I feel it coming on but nothing is written. If I push too hard, it’ll become a pimple—the junk still inside but the rolling hill resembles Mount Saint Helens. “Push!” My hand screams at the self whose eyes are clogged with sleep. I want to draw a line through it only to sit back and pout. How dare I feel like writing and nothing occurs!