Blank

Today I sat down to write my sentence and nothing happened. I started a few, but none were completed: random words were strewn across the page carelessly, as if tossed to one side by a wasteful tyrant. The page became as blank as my my mind, and any words I tried to write imprinted themselves upon my mind tenfold, sqeezing themselves in imposing black lettering into anyvacant space I might employ to try and work my way out of the sentence begun.  

Even here I am struggling, the phrasing is not quite right, the words not enough to describe my intention. My reluctance to write may stem from many things, but rarely have I been so incapable of completing one sentence.

Do these words count? They are not fiction, but they do represent a written record of some form of emotion.

Again I am stumbling. Perhaps tomorrow will be another day, and perhaps then words will once again be my companion instead of my adversary.

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