stream of consciousness - writers' block

..........
This is something I wrote last week, in a moment of extreme frustration and misery. Actually the whole week was kind of like that.
Anyway.
..........


It is morning and the birds are chirping and I am writing stream of consciousness. It isn’t fair that I should be doing my own exercise. I don’t LIKE doing stream of consciousness. I don’t know if it does me any good, either, but here I am, typing away, hoping something comes out of it. I can hear the birds chirping away. They don’t know I have writers’ block and I don’t think they care much besides. I can hear cars on the road and I know they don’t care either; they just want to get where they’re going. Where am I going? Squirrels are digging insulation out of our roof for nests – I can hear them scratching away up there, and I know they don’t care either.
The trouble is, the only person breathing in this house is me, and I care an awful lot.
It is like living with a head full of angry bees. Somebody put them in a jar and shook them, and then turned them loose up there to wreak havoc. They bounce off of my skull and buzz and sting and sting and buzz, till I want to scream. The only way to let them out is to write, but I can’t…why can’t I?
Jealousy is like wads of cotton jammed in my ears and eyes. It is bread dough that clings to my fingers. I can’t write through it. It clogs up every story, every poem why can’t I write like her, why can’t I be like him?
And then it isn’t about jealousy anymore, but nothing but itself.
I can’t even write like me anymore, because what if I’m not good enough? Better to never find out.
Once upon a time there was a girl who loved stories and she died alone because she thought it was worth it but oh it wasn’t…
I go for long walks and I watch the ice jam flow down the river in chunks the size of my mother’s car. I could jump aboard and go where they take me, but they spin so fast I’d never make it.
Why do I feel as if I’m no good when I know I am?
I don’t really want to be him or her – I like the inside of my own head, even when it’s filled with bees and unwanted visitors. I’m comfy up there and I’d never move out, and these insecurities are laughable but tonight they’re not.
Tonight they’re not.
Away goes the ice without me.
My head is pounding, pounding, buzzing, buzzing, coming to pieces in all directions but nobody can see it.
Away go the birds without me.
Once upon a time there was a girl and she gave up her stories to have adventures and she met a boy…
Away go the cars without me.
…and she fell in love and she thought it was worth it, but oh it wasn’t…
Away goes the squirrel, his nest a little softer.
And the universe died a little because everyone needs stories…everyone does.
Away go the bees, and they carry me with them, past once upon a time through the forest toward the uncertainty of happiness. What is a quest without longing? Success without doubt?
What is love without belief?
Bread rises by the stove and oh it is worth it for the moments when life is easy. When art is effortless.
When the universe is spinning around a point and I spin with it, and together we spin the stories we are supposed to spin, and nobody wonders what’s worth it because everyone knows all the stories end how they were meant to.
Once upon a time there was a girl and she was not so afraid…