Writer's Block

I feel something rise within me, as if- like lightening- inspiration is about to strike a place in my mind that I have neglected to recognize before. My muse begins to arise, but she is so frail, weakened by misuse and neglect. I fear I have bordered on breaking her, due to the suppression of my imagination in past days. I feel a glittering of hope, when I read, see or hear something that serves as the catalyst for any kind of emotion or degree of interest, and I feel energy return to my muse. She tries to lace these ideas that entertain me with inspiration, hoping to invoke that elated and frantic feeling within me, when my hands cannot possibly move fast enough to encompass the running of my overwhelmed mind.

            Suddenly, she stops. She withers, unable to carry out the idea that was beginning to form within me past the simplicity of the genesis stage. The sparse words on the paper are left unconnected, and I stare at them, confused at the path I was trying to create between them. They seem to be nothing but one-dimensional clusters of symbols, and I feel myself aching to know of the potential that laid between them- the world that connected these strange and divergent words to create something that momentarily, seemed wondrous. 

            A sob chokes at the throat of my muse, and simultaneously, one soars within me. I am confused by my inability to find inspiration, and find myself searching for an impetus at all times. I scour my bit of the universe for even a sparkle of inspiration, but it is simply evanescent, and escapes me like a butterfly fleeing the clutches of a small child. I push on the outer boundaries of the bit of the world in which I live, but widening this horizon is difficult, and I still seem at a loss for words and meaning.  My tired muse does not allow me to see anything more than the insipid and evident aspects of daily life, which I recognize as more than mundane, but I cannot find the words to describe what I long to. Discouraged, I stop for a moment, only to begin again after, in a cycle of failure and discouragement.

It is difficult to feel the hollow clanging within the words that I slap together, as I try to make sense of what I had started. I pause for a moment, unsure of what to do with this incomplete map of my thoughts, and consider disposing of it. I cannot bring myself to see these words burn up,, as if they had never existed so I put them away for safekeeping. I find myself hoping that some day, that lightening-like inspiration will strike again in the same place within my mind, so these words become more than an empty skeleton of the inception of a thought. Again, I search for meaning in these words, and I find none. 

Author's Note

I joined the writer's cafe community in the hope that it would end a long drought of writer's block that has kept me from bringing my story into existence, but I have found no relief from this beast. What is the best medicine for your muse? Please let me know in a comment! Thank you!