I write words that string together into sentences; these make grammatical sense. But to me, these are nothing. There is no feeling in a few words strung together into a sentence. Meaningful and heartfelt sentences are formulated in a hasty rush. Scrawled onto paper napkins or onto well-worn notebooks poisoned with coffee mug stains and salty tears, enough wet to fill a thousand tea cups.
I am a writer who does not write. Go figure. I feel like time wasted is time spent without a pen in my hand. I am a full-time experience technician. But I am on annual leave. I feel my heart getting smaller and the breaths shorter with each moment I do not write.
I escape the torment of writer's block by reading. I walk into tiny bookshops, conspicuously hidden in back streets and side alleys, and I search for inspiration. I search for something I recognise. A feeling from