HEREIN LIES MY MUSE

Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that bitch.
-Lili St. Crow

I've been suffering a mild case of the writer's block. It was a bit strange that someone of my age would suffer terribly from such a crippling condition. What causes this condition? I don't know and as far as this moment is concerned I don't give a fuck.
Why is that so? The answer lies in the text that follows.
Recently, I have been reading the Zahir by Paulo Coelho and the narrator of the story is a writer who describes to us what gives him the power ti write. He speaks of a boat called the word that takes him to an island where his thoughts are nothing more than what his soul needs to drop down on paper. Every time he tries to write he experiences the same thing. It starts with a will to write, the inability to write, and eventually the journey on the "word".
It had always been the same for me. I need a wind strong enough to push my sails to the island. Ever since I took heed to my calling I was sure that the wind was rage, pain, and disdain. Writing under such atmospheric pressure bears down on the mind. Only so much anger can be expressed on paper but this week I discovered another wind that is blowing even stronger. I call this wind joy.
As of Monday I have been encompassed by this immense feeling of joy. It may have been because I experienced something utterly overwhelming on that day but nonetheless, my writing has been fluid. No longer do I have to think so much about what I am writing but it just flows out of me like a seasonal river during autumn.
It was two weeks ago and I was trying to blog. This was a bad experience because writing while suffering from writer's block is like having to have sex immediately after jerking off- not fun. So, there I was trying to force witty phrases and deep commentary when I realized that I was wasting my time. In my head the question kept rolling, "when will this end?". It's never fun to pride yourself on an art that you struggle to express. So, there I was in front of a computer keying in paragraphs of  things that made no sense to me. Agonizing was the name. Every word was heavy and paralyzing. If stress could kill people the certainly my words could do and at that moment they took the life out of me. When I completed writing the post I felt relieved. Oh joy! Maybe that's when the joy started. The end of that post was the beginning of my high moments. The lack of marijuana in my bloodstream was made up for the seizing of a post. Yes, every high moment is a high moment.
But after Monday all that has changed. Right now I'm here keying down these words about the end of my condition and what does it feel like? It's like someone is standing besides me and doing all the writing. All this is nothing but an illusion. I'm not the writer. Yes, that's it. As long as I write there is another entity responsible for the magic that unfolds before me.
With that I bid thee farewell but before that.....
Writer's block is not a debilitating condition, it's a failure to acknowledge the presence of that divine being encompassing the essence of your inner artist.