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� the block, the dam, the hopes, and the metaphor �


9:59 p.m., 2002-04-03

i can never write about what i feel. is it that emotions defy words, or is it that words just escape me? more likely than not it's simply that i am incapable of suitable and respectable writing. my ineffectiveness pervades my thoughts at times like this when my mind shuts down and insists on misfiring like an 18th century flintlock musket with a barrell full of grey matter. rapid-fire misfires become a surreal bout of deja-vu as the spectre of writers block once again rouses itself from its fitful and all-too-temporary slumber along the banks of the muddy river that is my mind. shiny rivulets of sparkling thoughts delicately cling and flick from its grotesque and stringy cloak like a swatted spiderweb; falling, lost to the world. it's times like these when i cheer on the damned-up aforementioned river to overtake its banks and subsequently the aforementioned spectre. it's never enough for me to feel it, someday i hope to find the words.

for now i'm trying not to think much.


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