A Pretentious Blurb on Writers Block

I wrote about how I hated what I was experiencing, and this is what came of it. Mind you I spent the day reading Joseph Conrad, and I think his style rubbed off a little, as my writing gets more and more pretentious as it goes on. It's horribly conceited,

I really hate how I just have ideas in my mind, then when I go to write them down, they dissipate. They disappear. No longer a vision of brilliance as much as Hitlers plan to rid of the Jews, which in a way, is similar in style to the way I write. Butchering the English language. What once was thought to be a good plan -stimulating Germany's economy- is no longer anything but a horrible, wretched facade of which ones original plans lay rotting ignorantly while the false facade of brilliance still stands. I didn't really have any idea on what to write about. How to relate myself to what I was even thinking about, let alone transferring it to paper -or rather, screen. I can't seem to flow my ideas from my conscience to physical presence, and it irriates me so. It really is flabbergasting, when you have a strike of genius and aren't allowed to express what it is you've conjured. Almost like Bell's assistant receiving the voice of his master from across the room by their profound invention, but not permitted to say so. Where would we be? Without telephones our lives would be vastly different, and without my idea's I am nothing but a false facade of brilliance. Unable to perform, to commit to such wonderful idea's that I myself owe to my physical and mental state, and to others who are stuck in a world of indoctrination and unable to think independently let alone transfer any form of thought elsewhere. As I sit writing now, I fear the moment when I run out of air. Oxygen, not the form of which we breathe, but the livelihood to my writing. Suffocating, I fear. One of these moments I will run out of oxygen, and then what? Where will my ideas be? How will I be able to transfer thought to paper (screen) if I can no longer provide my brainwave lungs with the oxygen that is necessary for survival? Massacre will be the outcome. Similar to that of Hitler, but only with the English language of which I will surely lose my talent with.

Writers block. What is that? I can't even express myself, how pathetic! I stumble across words with speech, and I lay my last resort to the art of writing, of which I am short tempered in the form of talent. Easily bled out, resembling the fate of the Sow of which Ralph, Simon and Jack all lay prize upon. The stuck pig, how glamorous. Surely as the conclusion of this essay will my talent fade, my ability to write gone, literally, 'with the wind'. Now I'm not one for ancient cinema, but the thought of losing the only means of expression I am able to adequately perform is all to frightening for me. How will I be able to communicate once my sense of flow dries up in a desert heat wave? The river of which carried such eclectic, brilliant thoughts and theories vanished not in the physical form of a drought, but one that encompasses my mind as the desert to Africa. A fierce, blazing Sun evaporating all forms of thought in the most literal of ways. I am losing my passion in the present, and as I write this my mind sways to distant thoughts, memories and fantasies. I shall go now, before my usage of the English language lay fall to the hands of Hitler, or in a synonymous reality, my inadequate mind incapable of expression.

Author's Note

It's horribly pretentious, I really don't have any "strike of genius". I just thought I could get some feedback on the STYLE of writing, not necessarily the content. I think its the first time I've written with so many metaphors, and the style is really more flowery than I'm used to.

Anyways, ranting about writers block really helped to unleash some creativity. I used some unnecessary words (i.e "brainage", what the hell?) and I over fertilized the flower while writing this. No doubt. Any feedback would be great. I really am ranting on again. God, I need to stop. Thanks for any feedback.

Reviews

[Aimee Mahathy]

Well, I'm afraid my review will probably not help you, as I am in the same doomed boat as you are.
Though right now, after watching an Andy Warhol documentary, I'm trying to -not- focus on style. Which is why I probably won't help any.
But I felt compelled to comment, as your likening your block to the acts of Hitler (so on and so forth) was brilliant!