A History of Writers Block

EBC6PNc

You will not know

how deep of a drought you are in

until you come out of it.

Much as a sailor

cannot appreciate the coarseness of sand

until it rubs the dead skin from their heels

after months at sea.

At first your skin cracks as your feet bleed

and in your stumbling struggle

to climb what seems like a mountain before you,

you wonder if you’ve ever really walked at all.

Or

if you’ve always had something lifting you up,

propelling your body forwards without your notice.

It could be the current of the ocean

churning underneath your boat.

Its absence sorely noticed

in your current state of landlockedness.

Or

the soft caress of fingers interlocking

as two palms press together.

They were never a matching set of hands,

but your skin misses the warmth and company.

These absences live up to their name.

They leave holes where something used to be.

And although it was never a necessity,

you grew accustomed to it.

You grew around it,

learned its presence,

and were comforted by it.

So when it is taken away,

you stumble at first.

Your legs shake and your throat is parched.

You are a boat without its mooring.

You are hypnotized by doldrums.

You are dying of thirst in an ocean.

And then came the shore.

A beach of rocks and grainy sand.

It cuts into your feet, but nonetheless

you continue to climb.

You know your boat wasn’t going anywhere.

And you recognize

Once you have made it,

past the drought of sand and saltwater,

There will be a monsoon.

rain-09

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