Then, I wrote something brilliant.
After taking a sigh of relief to my writers block it was all deleted.
No recovery.
Another sigh,
This time of the mourning kind.
As I gave in and turned to sleep away my defeat I felt satisfied.
Although those words may never be recovered, at least they had a chance to exist together for a brief moment.
They served their purpose.
For a minute there I was "unstuck" and free.
For a minute I forgot how hard it was to do my self-inflicted job.
For a minute I thought it was right and I was going to be okay.
Then nothing.
The blank page staring at me as it did before, yet somehow now it wasn't so frightening.
It had just felt the weight of texts scattered across as the page became alive.
It held hope and promise.
Then the page, it too, suffered loss.
Feeling useless at the moment the page must still exist blank and ready for the writer to be inspired again.
So it waits without any other choice.
And I try again.
I will always try again.
