Glaring white stares blankly at me.
The pages beg to be filled, and yet the words don’t come.
A jumble, a mess. A train crash of thoughts scattered about.
To have sanity. A semblance of direction, even just a moment when everything might be still.
Transitioning, they call it. Becoming something new. Entering something new. Stepping out in the world alone.
But not so alone. Compassion guides with a steady hand, and two young ones depend entirely on me.
And still the page stares blank. The pen wont move. The words don’t form.
How is one to write fiction, when surrealism has taken over? It all feels as fiction might. Pushing against the fourth wall, trying to break free of the confines one has fallen into.
When will security come so Creativity might flow? When does anything make sense again?
And still the page stares. Empty.