Writer's Block.

Another day passed. The heat is getting unbearable. This city has nothing to give me but memories. I've met people. I've loved people. Hated a few. Maybe more than a few. I've had my reasons. I go to bed wishing for a better tomorrow. I've had my days.

But, now it's time.

I wake up in the middle of the night. I'm sweating profusely. Subconscious state of mind. The air-conditioning has been bitter. I get out. There's not much of a breeze. Though whatever I can feel is much comforting than the life I've lived. I look up. Not much to see. The polluted layer of air has cloaked the sky. 32 stars counted so far. And that's it. The moon is hidden behind one of the many towers surrounding my house. View blocked. Not much a scene to enjoy.

The night has taken over my senses. When everyone is asleep, us nocturnal beings rule the hour of darkness. Our senses are heightened. Although my vision isn't as sharp as an owl's, I can hear as clear as a bat. It's an expression. Don't take it too seriously.

The silence of the night is quite intriguing. Yet, so much to hear when you're alone. A single snap or tick or thud gets you thinking about how your life would end if you happen to encounter a wandering spirit in search of a soul to feast on.
But these are simply the sounds of the breeze. Sounds of bats landing on trees. Sounds of tiny insects flapping about, communicating. Stray canines howling, barking, being possessive about their territories.

Weak isn't the exact word to describe how I feel at the moment. Things have been rough. And whining is for wimps, so that story ends before it started.

I've been thinking about a lot of stuff. It's funny how you procrastinate throughout and just when your day is about to end, you analyse everything and conclude that you hate the way it's working and without any hesitation tag yourself as a failure. Look in the mirror. There you go. See that stamp on your forehead? Yes, it says it right there. F-A-I-L-U-R-E. In capital, and bold of course.

My mind is always wandering. Thoughts keep coming in. Yet, no strong topic to think about. To write about.
Got any? Yes, I'm talking to YOU. Share. And I still wont give a shit. I will judge you and your stories, and automatically assume that it isn't worth giving a thought. That's how it works.

Writer's Block. This term will confuse you. It's not really a block. It's a deterioration of creativity. And when people claim to have a Writer's Block, they're lying to themselves. They force themselves to believe that it isn't their fault, when in fact, laziness is what has taken over their minds. Their brain refuses to get up from the couch to change the goddamn channel.

This is about MY "Writer's Block." Maybe it's gonna take a while for my mind to reboot, or maybe it just did.

Maybe it just did.