I am standing on hallowed ground. The people around me are all in the same spirit: they are worshipping and for all I know they might be in heaven. Figuratively speaking, of course. I try to find the connection I had with my creator, but somehow I can’t grasp it. Verbal communication with him is not working, so I settle for writing.
I try to pour my heart out to my protector through a letter, but I get disgusted with how shallow and inauthentic my words are. Maybe this is how it starts when friends or partners fall apart. Maybe it all starts with a glitch in the communication system. Could this be a topic I could explore? Would I be able to draw on my past experiences with failed friendships, and write about it? Once I am finally free and comfortable inside the walls of my room, I get my journal. I am filled with excitement, but there is also an underlying, overwhelming anxiety; my pen might not comply.
10 minutes pass. 30 minutes pass. An hour passes and I haven’t written anything. By now I don’t know my pen. By now I feel like a girl who wakes up excited to see loved ones only to find strange, unfriendly faces. Writer’s block is real!