When I Can't Write

Something big has happened: I haven't been able to write for two weeks. Ashamed of repeatedly breaking my promises, I've decided to just scribble a few lines.

My mentor hasn't pressed me for the "debt" I owe, but I feel utterly ashamed. Whenever I'm not working, I uneasily reproach myself: You have time for this, why not work?

But I can't write; it's as if all my past thoughts have fled, dissipated, lost on the path, in the breeze, in words. I try to piece together idle phrases, scavenging fragments from notebooks of all sizes, attempting to pile them into something. How many unfinished pieces or ideas with no starting point have piled up by my hand? They are constantly produced and immediately shelved. Like a child scavenging in the wilderness, every time something piques my interest, what I bring back is always disappointment.

The sunlight on the desk inches along, slipping from one end of the desk to the other, and the day is gone. The sunlight leaves behind brightness, but what has the hand under the sunlight left behind? Endlessly tapping the keyboard, all day long not knowing what I'm rushing for, as if rushing means time hasn't been wasted.

Today I close my eyes; when I open them tomorrow, will inspiration come?