You are a writer.

It is one of those days, when the weather is slightly foggy and the atmosphere is slightly gloomy. No one is messaging you nor are you messaging anyone. Reruns are playing of old classics, ones you have watched before you were introduced to the harsh world of reality. Everyone is on a break. You are on a break. There is finally a pause –a hiatus– in your crazed, busy life. You realize this is the perfect opportunity to construct a masterpiece.

You are to write a story. Whether it be short or long, you don’t know. All you know is that with your pen in one hand and paper in the other, you shall create magic. You place the pen down, letting its smooth ink pierce the paper, letting the words flow out, letting your imagination take you on a wild goose chase as you somehow maneuver your way back into reality.

But something is wrong. 

It’s blank. The paper is still blank. You never placed your pen onto the paper. You never let the ink ooze out. You never let the black liquid shape itself into a vomit of eloquently worded words. Never did imagination roam free within the last five minutes. Nothing is being written. Nothing is being crossed out. Nothing is being created nor is it being destroyed. And although everything —your grip on the pen, the peaceful ambiance, the crispness of the freshly bought paper— is perfect, something is quite not right. You feel yourself unable to think, unable to produce new ideas.

On a perfect day where the weather is perfect and the materials are perfect and the timing is perfect and just about everything is perfectperfectperfect, there is one aspect that is not perfect.

And that is you.

Your mind is not perfect. Your thoughts are not perfect. Your ideas, how they usually shape themselves so naturally into words on paper, are not perfect. What you hold in your mind, if there even is anything, cannot be executed as it once, twice, and thrice so beautifully did before.
You are sick. You are ill. You realize you have caught an epidemic, one without a cure. You have fallen prey to the very same virus that has brought down millions of potentially great writers before you:

writer’s block.