“I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.”
-Franz Kafka

That quote, Dear Reader, sums up my current state perfectly.

But I should be so lucky. As I’m writing this I sit beneath my favorite tree, trying to force some shred of inspiration to flow from my fingers.

But I can’t.

Kafka also said that a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity. I can only agree. The blocked up creativity is building a crescendo of screaming ideas and voices in my mind and it is wearing me down.

Every time I feel an idea start to take shape, a new one springs forth.

I make notes of them and try to flesh them out, save them for later and sort them through, hoping I will lay them to rest so I can focus on only a few. But they just keep building up, blocking me.

Even while I sleep.

The past week alone I’ve had four ideas come to me in my dreams. In one of them I actually dreamt that I dreamt a story idea, how about that?

I’ll keep trying, though.

But, now my fingers are getting cold, my spirits are getting low and my stomach is growling.

I’ve had better days…