Short Stories, The Craft, The Writer's Limbo

The Writer’s Limbo

I don’t fear heights.
I don’t fear the dark.
I don’t fear tiny spaces.
…and I definitely don’t fear spiders.


I fear myself during periods of, what I’d like to call,
Creative inactivity.
There’s no worse feeling in the world
Than when you can feel your mental gears

You’re left in some sort of lost world,
Where you’re the only breathing thing in existence.
The space around you is an opaque grey
And the air is stale

A nightmare of nothingness…
Colours are forgotten
The sky and ground are the same
(Or was there a sky or a ground?)
Spoken Words are bombs in the echoing space
Too loud and destructive

Screaming is useless..
Laughing is pointless.
Thoughts whisper nothing.

My senses are all dulled
I can hear, but can’t.
I can see, but can’t.
I can taste, but can’t.
I can touch, but can’t.

Can’t. Can’t. Can’t!

It gets to the point that I’d just curl into a ball
Trapped in my own personal hell
A personal hell that consist of grey
A desk, a chair, a pen

…and a blank page taunting me.

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