There are moments when everything you put on paper grates your soul. And you know it’s absolute crap. Something inside you impels you to string letters and thoughts together and then that same thing graciously informs you that you can’t keep any of it. And you go back and forth and crumple used-up pages, tossing them on the floor. Except you’re writing on a computer now so you don’t even get the satisfaction of doing that. You hit delete and stare again at that mocking blankness.
You try again, hiding this time behind the safe, anonymous pronouns. No identity. No latent associations. Just him and her. It, them, us, we, they. You wish you could be brave and put your story down. Shout from atop a stage that this is me. But you can’t, won’t. You are buried deep within the verse. You build up walls around yourself. They shatter and fall, but the rubble burying you serves just as well. No light gets in and you remain.
Writing is hard work. Life is harder. Don’t worry. The punch still tastes just as good.